


The Nautilus Adventure

by PinkGloom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 69, AU Steampunk, Aether, Airship adventure, Anal, Blowjobs, John is Tricked, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, OC magic beast, floating islands, follows the Sherlock storyline but with a twist, not s3 compatible, spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:25:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 55,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkGloom/pseuds/PinkGloom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Steampunk Sherlock & John meet by chance, but quickly their fates are intertwined as Sherlock realizes the real reason John felt compelled to board the airship. Alchemy & Aether & Creatures -Use of OCs-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arch 1

"Welcome aboard the Nautilus. We hope your stay will be a pleasant one. Welcome aboard..."

Army Doctor John Watson paid no attention to the mechanical helper, who shouted its programmed greeting into the air. He could never understand the need for such platitudes to be shouted repeatedly, and after having waited on the platform for more than twenty minutes, he was ready to take his service revolver out and shoot it.

Instead, he tried to occupy his mind by surveying the ship that would be his home for the next month, though he was using the term 'ship' loosely. True, the common people called it an 'airship', but around the company he was going to spend this trip with, it was best defined as a 'dirigible'. John smirked.

The Nautilus was certainly going to be the grandest contraption he was ever going to have the pleasure of cruising on. It had taken all that he had saved from his last bonus to purchase a ticket, but it was going to be be well worth the money. It was the maiden voyage for the dirigible; which showed by all the fanfare it was receiving. Long banners were hung on the outside, making it visible for miles around.

It could hold more than a hundred passengers (which was evident by the long queue) and enough servants to wait on them. The metallic shine of it glittered in the November air and he found that sometimes it would even blind him. He had seen some pictures in the local editorial, but the grainy black and white pictures had not done it justice.

It was truly a marvel and further proof that the new century was going to hold even more promise. As long as this ridiculous war doesn't continue. Realizing where his mind was wondering, John shook his head to clear it. Suddenly, shouting cut through the air.

"I may not have a ticket, but my name is on your list!" Bellowed an indignant male voice.

John sighed and took out his pocket watch for the third time in the last ten minutes. So that was the reason he was waiting for what now seemed like an eternity. The people around him were also starting to shuffle with impatience, it wouldn't be too long before a scene broke out. Although he was never one for wanting fisticuffs, John knew he wouldn't be too displeased if the gentleman was put in his place.

Thankfully, the staff let the man through and the queue surged forward. John grabbed at his hat as he was pushed.

"Pleasure or business?"

John blinked his eyes rapidly. "Sorry?"

The attendant repeated the question, with slight irritation edging his voice. "Pleasure or business?"

John fumbled his pockets searching for his ticket as he answered. "Pleasure."

His ticket was barely glanced at before it was stamped. "We hope that your stay on the Nautilus will be a pleasant one."

* * *

Without a single look at the interior, John took a direct route to his cabin, only stopping to pick up his cabin key. He released a sigh as he opened the door to 221A. John was not surprised to see how cramped it was; at least he wasn't sharing it. Bless the Lord for small favors. All the retired soldier wanted was peace and quiet, something that had been in short supply on the battlefield.

The decorating was nothing less than what he would have expected from a world class luxury liner. It was a bit too gaudy for his tastes, with gold filigree everywhere, and the wallpaper being so busy it nearly gave him a headache.

He slipped off his tweed jacket, popped off his hat and placed them over the peg on his door. His suitcase was placed next to the bed and John opened it, searching for the novelette he had purchased before boarding. He slumped into the wing chair, propped his feet up on the ottoman, and placed his cane against the wall. John pulled the draw string on the lamp, and the room was bathed in a soft glow.

* * *

John Watson could think of three distinct reasons as to why the novelette could not keep his attention. One: it was a horribly written dime thriller. Two: although he had tried to convince himself to the contrary, the last thing he really wanted was 'peace & quiet' Three: whoever was in the cabin next to his was making a hell of a racket.

There had been not only what sounded like small explosions, but also an odd odor had started to seep under the door that connected his cabin to the other. John threw the novelette at the wall and reached for his cane. He was tempted to smack the door to the other cabin until he felt better, but decided it would be best to avoid a confrontation. He put on his coat and left his room.

* * *

The rest of the interior of this Nautilus was slightly less 'ritzy' than his own cabin, but the airship did its best to glamour her guests at every possible turn. There was an automated band playing a classical tune that John recognized as a Mozart. He was not shocked to see the instruments playing with no human hands to guide them; although there were hands, the ones of automatons. Whether they had a face or they were just gears and sprockets, it was a marvel to see them move with such fluidity and grace. John slowly closed his eyes and allowed to music to flow over and through him.

John took a quick glance around and saw that the other guests were already in their dinner wear. It had been a long time since he had seen men in spotless tuxedos and women with their glittering jewels and fashionable gowns. John tried not to feel out of place, but he gripped his cane slightly harder as he felt their eyes looking him over. Judging. Picking.

His suit was by no means 'ratty', but compared to the tailored fashion that surrounded him, he might as well have climbed out of the gutter. He took one final sweeping look around the main lobby and then ducked out onto the observation deck. No one else was there; the Nautilus was still going to be docked for the next hour. The view afforded him was breathtaking nonetheless. The massive dirigible was docked hundreds of feet above the city skyline and the view seemed to stretch out with no end.

John took out the chrome-plated cigarette case that his sister had given to him. He withdrew a single hand-rolled cigarette and lit it with a match. Before putting the case back in his jacket, John looked over the inscription.  **From Clara Love Harry**

He had sincerely hoped that the romance his sister had had with the other woman would have worked out. It wasn't that he was overly fond of Clara, he had just wanted to see a romance honestly blossom, albeit, an unconventional one.  _I'm getting bitter in my old age._  Despite the fact that John Watson was a healthy thirty-two years, he felt as if the whole world had already passed him by, without so much as a warning.

He took a long drag from the cigarette and the taste lingered in his lungs. As a doctor, he knew it was a terrible habit, but everyone needed their vices. He had told himself for the hundredth time that once he ran out, it would be his last. Maybe the commitment would actually be kept this time, as the excuse he had supplied himself in the first place was the fact that he was getting shot at-which was no longer the case.

John was lost in reminisces when the shadow of a lean figure came up to his right side. At first he ignored the figure, but he felt eyes on him; he turned to see the outline of a dark haired man. He seemed to be eyeing his cigarette, so John took out his case and offered one to the stranger. The man took it without a word, removed a lighter out of his pocket and lit the tip. They both puffed on their respective cigarettes, watching the sun dip lower.

"Iraq or Afghanistan?"

John started to cough, as the unexpected question came as he was halfway through another inhale of smoke. "Excuse me?"

"You are a military man. So, Iraq or Afghanistan?" As if to mock him, the dark haired man took an elegant puff of his cigarette and released the smoke in small rings.

"Afghanistan but how would you know...?"

The man smirked, "Well, you have recently been shot. You still carry your revolver, which would be illegal on a civilian and your sleeve." He let the last word out as a sigh as the smoke escaped his lips.

John furrowed his brow, uncertain if he should be shocked by the man's words or astounded at them. He tried to regain his composure and put out his cigarette before he answered. "Might I enquire as to how you are aware of this personal information?"

He kept his eyes fixated outside the window. "It is obvious to anyone who actually observes."

John went to open his mouth but he was interrupted. "I am not a stalker, if that is your next question."

John turned to finally face the man. His hair was a untamed mass of ebony curls and his cheekbones were high and sharp; a contrast to the cupid bow of his mouth. He was dressed in a form fitting suit that had unquestionably been tailored. The man wasn't wearing a tie, instead a pair of googles hung loosely around his neck. The money of the suit was offset by the first two buttons of the shirt being undone, and by the slight burns on the edges of his cuffs.

John Watson was still completely baffled by the man.

"No, I didn't mean to imply that. I was just curious."

The man raised an eyebrow. "You are?"

John tried to suppress a chuckle. "How could I not be? Now will you divulge you made these 'observations'.

The man looked like he wanted to comment but decided instead to answer John's questions. "Well, you have a cane, but that is not uncommon for a gentlemen. However, when you reached for your cigarette case your movements were stiff. Although it could be stiff muscles, it appears that it is only the one shoulder, pointing to a recent injury. Now as for the gun, I saw you brush your back with your hand as I joined you out here. It was an unconscious thought, as if you were checking for something. Being a man recently done with a tour of duty it stands to reason it would be your most important possession-your revolver. Now as for the location, may I see your left sleeve?"

John presented his sleeve before he realized he had even done it.

The man took John's wrist in his hand and touched the upturned sleeve with his right. "That is a Lembert stitch, that while easily performed by a surgeon not often seen on a coat. You have an odd tan line, showing that you were often in the sun but not for the pleasure of sun bathing."

John made every possible effort for his jaw not to hang open. "That is brilliant."

The man blinked a few times as if in disbelief. He slowly lowered his hand from John's wrist and asked, "Really?"

John tried to not allow his face to give away too much, but he found it difficult not to break out into a grin. "That is the most excitement I have had in a long while. Humor me, is it a parlor trick?"

The man grunted and his curls bounced with his head. "As I stated before, I observe, doctor. My science is not a cheap trick."

Afraid that he had thoughtlessly offended the man, John held out his hand for a shake. "Watson. John Watson. I would add more, but you seem to know the rest."

After eyeing John's outstretched hand suspiciously the man raised his own hand. "Sherlock Holmes. I am pleased to make your acquaintance..."

Before Sherlock could add more, the overhead speakers blared. "The Nautilus will now be departing. We request that all passengers vacate all observation decks. The Nautilus..."

John went to the door and held it open while Sherlock walked through it. They turned to each other as if uncertain how to continue.

"As you are unaccompanied, as am I, would you care to join me for dinner?" Mr. Holmes' expression read that he know the answer, but was asking for the sake of propriety.

"Yes, I imagine I would."


	2. Arch 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: twolovesonestone

"May I inquire as to why you invited me to dinner if you didn't plan on eating?" asked John.

Sherlock darted his eyes over to him. "It would look quite odd if I came here and did not eat. As a couple, it looks nothing out of the ordinary if you eat and I just have tea."

John slowly nodded his head and went back to his meal. He didn't really mind Holmes' logic. Dinner aboard the Nautilus was turning out to be a fantastic treat. Being in the army for the greater part of his adult life, John Watson was not used to French cuisine, but getting his first taste was enough to leave him captivated. He allowed the pâté to dissolve in his mouth and relished every flavor. If his partner wanted to be silent, all the better for digestion.

Although, after a few more moments of companionable silence, John could no longer hold his tongue. "If you do not plan on eating, what are you doing then?"

This caused Sherlock to turn towards him and take a sip of his long neglected tea. "If you must know, I am categorizing our fellow passengers for later use."

"I suppose, with your normal company, they would understand that statement, but I must admit, it puts me at a loss."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Normal company?"

John was slowly becoming convinced that they were having two different conversations. "Normal company. Friends. Companions."

He looked away from John and went back to scanning the dining hall. "I do not have friends. Enemies, I suppose, but I do not normally dine with them."

John blinked a few times in astonishment and disbelief. Enemies? What in the world did he mean?

Instead of questioning him further, John decided he could ask Holmes about it later and went back to putting his full concentration on his meal. Even the port was a grade he had never before tasted, John was certain he was going to thank his lucky stars more than once that all meals had been included in the initial ticket. Paying for the alcohol was going to be enough of a burden, but he would be damned if he was going to eat without it.

"I am doing to them what I did to you."

John tilted his head, surprised at the sound of Holmes voice. "Ah, observing." John licked his lips. "I don't imagine you would care to share some with me."

This caused Sherlock's upper lip to twitch into a smile. "See the woman over there?" He pointed with his eyes.

"The one with the pearls?"

"Yes, but they are not real. She had to pawn them. Gambling problem. This trip is her last hurrah before she goes begging back to her father."

"What about him?" John guided Sherlock's glaze over with his sorbet spoon.

"Nothing spectacular about him. Only the illegitimate children and cocaine use. Small dog, too. Terrier, I believe."

"Brilliant." John found himself saying for what seemed the hundredth time that night.

"Must you keep saying that?"

John felt a slight blush creep across his neck. "Oh, right. I apologize."

"No, I...I meant to say, feel free." Now it was Sherlock's turn to blush, but his was much less pronounced. Watson would have missed it completely, if Holmes' skin wasn't so pale to begin with.

John took another sip of port. Unbelievably, he could already feel the slight affects of it. Light head, warmth in his veins. John only pondered for a moment if it was the man or the port that had caused the reaction.

* * *

"Well Doctor, I believe this is where I retire for the night."

After dinner, they had gone to the library and whittled away the hours until it was past midnight. Most of the time had been spent in studious silence while the dewey decibel machine made the occasional click and the light conversations of other passengers had shifted around them.

John had occupied himself for the most part with Royal Navy medical journals. Holmes had pushed back his chair and stood up what seemed like every few minutes, and gotten another random book off the shelves until he had a mountain of journals, dictionaries and pamphlets. He had also taken out a small black notebook and scribbled down an excessive amount of notes. John had been tempted to ask, but didn't; he realized he probably wouldn't understand the answer anyway.

The library attendant had made a huffing noise as he and Holmes had left the mess on the long oak table. John found that he followed Holmes without even meaning too. They reached Holmes' room and John did a double take.

"Wait,  _you're_  in 221B? You're the bloke who was making all that commotion earlier?" John asked disbelievingly.

"Then you must be the  _gentlemen_  who threw a book against the wall. I do not care what violence you bring upon my person but I must ask you not to treat a book so roughly."

"If it makes you feel any better, it was a terrible dime thriller."

"Slightly."

John and Sherlock stared at each other. Neither at a loss for words, but more unaware as to how to continue the conversation.

Holmes cleared his throat. "I do not suppose that you might be interested in learning what I was working on."

John did not hesitate before he agreed.

* * *

John batted his eyes and squeezed them tight against the sunshine spilling in through the small window of his cabin. He stretched and tried to categorize his thoughts. He had not gone to bed until almost three a.m., but he was surprised he wasn't regretting the decision.

He vaguely remembered that it was only when he had started to softly snore standing up that Holmes had suggested he should return to his own cabin. Throughout the visit, Holmes had never looked the least bit tired. As John had fallen asleep listening to the lamentations of a violin, he had speculated if it was Holmes playing or not.

John's thoughts turned to the occupations of 221C and how they had not raised any complaints the night before; he figured they must be heavy sleepers.

John found that the first thing he wanted to do after shaving, waxing his mustache and changing into freshly pressed suit, was to see if Holmes wanted to join him for a late brunch.

Instead of going outside of his cabin and knocking on the front door of 221B, John stood in front of the door that connected the two cabins. John hesitated.  _Is this too personal a gesture? It would seem more polite to use the front door._  Before John could take a step away, he heard a voice say from the other side of the wall, "Oh just come in, Watson."

John rolled his eyes and opened the door. He was greeted with the same sight that he had left the previous night: Holmes in his dressing robe over his suit, goggles tightly fixed and a vial of liquid in both hands. "How was your night, Doctor? Restful, I hope?"

"I slept like the dead. Although I gather you did not?" John made his way over to Holmes' bed and sat down on the edge of it. He would have sat in the wing chair, but it was covered with odds and ends. How Holmes had already managed to make such a mess of the cabin was a mystery to him.

"So, a late brunch then? I hope you don't mind, but I shan't be eating again." Sherlock said as he mixed the two vials into a larger container on a bunsen burner.

"Why, might I ask?"

"Digestion slows the mind." Sherlock looked at the shade of violet the liquid turned into and made a tutting noise.

John could plainly see that Holmes was undernourished. The slim figure afforded him a sort of cat-like grace to his movements, even though he was easily over six feet tall. John shook his head.  _Where had that come from?_

"If we dine together, you at least need to have a piece of toast, something, anything. I do not want to open the door and find you sprawled out because you starved yourself."

Holmes gave him a haughty look, but there was an odd smile crinkling his eyes. "Doctor's orders?"

"I'm afraid so." John found himself returning the smile.

* * *

After brunch (where Holmes had nibbled at a crumpet) they went to the parlor. John purchased a copy of the Morse News. Although rotary phones had been invented that could be connected wirelessly, many editorials found it easier to transmit the news to airships through morse code first, have it translated and the printing all done with Engravers.

There had been an attempt at having jet propelled canisters deliver the papers, but that hadn't gone so well. It had been joked about for weeks after that the idea had done 'smashingly!' as that was exactly what the first canister did to the poor Olympic.

"Excuse me sir. Might I trouble you for a cigarette?"

John looked to see a well-dressed young man standing in front of him. He looked almost too young to be smoking but John went to reach for his case.

"It would be wise if you did not heed that request Watson."

John directed his gaze over to Holmes, who had folded his paper in half and was now staring menacingly at the young man.

The young man turned his attention to Holmes. "I beg your pardon. Is there a problem?" His voice dripped with honey. John wasn't sure why, but it put him on edge.

Sherlock folded his paper and put it in his lap. "Because you have already nicked three other mens' cigarette cases and I do not wish for Watsons' to be your fourth."

The man turned, his full attention now on Holmes. "What right have you to make such outlandish accusations?"

John saw the now familiar glow in Holmes' and knew he was in for a show. "I saw you earlier in the dining hall. You asked another man for a cigarette and when he produced his case you complimented him on it, then you asked to look it over, praising its craftsmanship. You then proceeded to produce a varied of rather outlandish facts about the maker, distracting the man and while he was too busy conversing, you slipped it into your pocket. A rather bold move seeing as we are trapped up here and the owner is bound to discover it missing sooner than later." Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes. "It is so  _boring._ You are not even trying to be creative. Next time, try and use at least  _one_ brain cell."

The man gulped. He darted his eyes about looking for an escape. "It would be to your benefit if you handed over the cases, so as to avoid a scene."

Upon realizing he was trapped, the man fished into his trouser pocket, retrieving the three cases. He practically threw them at Holmes, but he plucked them from the air with ease. The man gave one more hard glare before he turned to leave without exchanging another word.

John stood up and walked over to Holmes' arm chair. "How did you...? Thank you." Realizing he was just going to sound like a blithering idiot again, John cut himself off.

Sherlock pocketed the three cases and stood up. "Shall we head back to our cabins now? I have something I need to test."

John finished his whiskey and dutifully followed after Holmes.

 


	3. Arch 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: twolovesonestone
> 
> Although I wrote this while thinking of Sherlock, the characters I wrote kinda have a mix of Grandpa Holmes to me too. John does have a mustache but you can imagine him without it >

"You what?"

"There's no need to shout, Watson. I was just stating that there is more that makes up these cigarettes than normally one would believe."

"What you mean, like cannabis?"

Sherlock sighed. "Watson, try and look past the obvious. This is not about what the layman can see."

John bit his lower lip and tried to keep his voice level. "Well, excuse this layman for being a bit green around the edges when it comes to deducting the ingredients of cigarettes."

"Being a simpleton is not a disease Watson, it is a choice."

John shifted from one leg to the other. "I believe that was a none too veiled insult."

Holmes rolled his eyes and locked eyes with Watson. "You know I don't mean that as such. Come, let us not quarrel." Holmes pointed to his microscope.

John walked over and peered in. "There appears to be something lining the tip on this cigarette, but it's not the stain of tobacco. It is such a small quality, how did you isolate it?"

"For some reason it struck me as odd that that ruffian would be stealing cigarette cases and not wallets. Also, how did he intend for these acts not to be noticed? I believe he wanted to be discovered."

"What ever for?"

"I have a suspicion that he was the one planting the poison."

" _Poison?_ "

"Yes, and it was quite a gamble too." Holmes picked up the lidded petri from the under microscope lens. "The poison was placed just on the tip of the cigarette, and as soon as the unfortunate soul put their mouth around it..."

"He was trying to poison me?"

"In so many words."

John turned indignant eyes to Holmes. "Well, what else do you propose they were trying to do?"

Holmes turned his eyes back to the petri dish. "There are still too many unknown variables. I need more data."

John picked his cane up from it's resting spot against the bed. "I believe I need some time alone. I'll be in my cabin if you need anything."

Holmes acknowledged him with a wave of a hand.

* * *

"Watson."

"Watson, wake up. Watson!"

"What...?" John turned over to find Holmes standing beside his bed. Holmes was biting his lower lip and was rocking back and forth on his heels.

"What in the world is going on?" John rubbed his eyes and felt a weight on his bed as Holmes sat down.

"It is not unusual for my experiments to bother others when I am pent up, whether it be in a hotel or a ship."

John yawned.

"So why has it been that I have only disturbed you? What about 221C? I knocked on the door repeatedly and when I got no answer I picked the lock."

"Holmes!"

"He was murdered."

This caught John's full attention. "He was murdered?"

"Yes, I am sure of it. It was the work of one of those blasted poison cigarettes."

John finally opened his eyes all the way to discover that Holmes' face was barely a foot from his. He found himself captivated by the eyes staring back into his own with such an intense light. He felt as if he was swimming in a sea of blues, greens and amber.

John darted his eyes down but instead of finding reprieve, he was struck by the red lips that now caught his gaze. It had been his lanky figure and pale complexion that had first caught the Doctor's attention, but being this close to Holmes' face, he was discovering that there were other qualities of appearance that deserved more attention.

_God I must look the fool. Stop staring._

What John did not realize was that Sherlock was enjoying the sudden silence. Sherlock allowed a quick glance around his companion's face.  _Blue eyes that had an eerie depth to them. Ruffled sand brown hair that begged for fingers to be brushed through it. Side burns and mustache that only added to highlighting his open and caring face._  Sherlock stored all the information away. For some reason, he wanted to gather all possible data of John Watson.

"Watson, come with me." Holmes stood up and disappeared though the door.

John swung his legs over the bed and reached for his robe.

* * *

"How could no one have heard him?"

"He suffocated. While he might of had the ability to write out that note, he did not have the lung capacity to yell."

John looked at the word that had been spelled out by the dying man. " _Trahison._ " The poor sod had been at his writing desk and had spilled the ink well everywhere when he had fallen from his chair. He had smeared the ink to make his last note before the world had gone black.

"French for 'betrayal'."

"But why French?"

Holmes gave John a questioning look. "Watson, you are aware that the Nautilus left from Quebec. A predominantly French part of North America."

John gritted his teeth. "When do you think he was killed?"

"Most likely the first night. He would have been discovered a lot sooner if he had chosen not to place the 'do not disturb' on the doorknob."

"Have you alerted the crew?"

"Have them mess up the scene before I get a chance to look it over? I think not." Holmes took out his magnifying glass and proceeded to examine every inch of the body and the surrounding area.

"I believe that there is a second murder we will need to be wary of."

John looked up at the ceiling on the cabin.  _What have I gotten myself into?_  "What makes you guess that?"

Holmes straightened himself to his full height. "I never guess, Watson. Ever."

"Alright, what makes you deduce that?"

This seemed to appease him. "Why would that young man still have been switching cigarettes if he had already killed his intended victim? It was to be a double homicide."

"Doesn't that seem too random?"

"No, he had two men that he needed to kill and there was most likely going to be a third or a fourth to cover his tracks. The man that we had the fortune to meet was not the mastermind behind this. Who it is though, I have not the slightest idea...yet."

"I wanted a quiet reprieve, not this." John made a sweeping motion with his hand.

"You must admit it intrigues you. Besides, whether you were a decoy or the other intended target, someone planned on killing you."

Watson picked up the handset as he dialed the emergency number. He tried not to admit how alarmingly true Holmes' words had been.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes you should have reported it to us immediately when you discovered something was amiss." John had to admit the police detective on the Nautilus had some brass courage talking to Holmes the way he was, after everything that had already transpired.

"Sir, it appears to be a heart attack." The MediAuto reported in its hollow tone.

"No it was  _not_! This man was murdered! I know it is an inconvenient, but we have a killer loose on this dirigible!"

DI Lestrade raked his right hand through his hair. "Sir, as previously stated, these automatons are the best on the market-they do not make mistakes."

"Neither do I." It was barely above a whisper but it was filled with contempt. "Why would he write out 'trahison' if it was a heart attack?

Lestrade massaged the bridge of his nose. "It doesn't make since to me either, but the MediAuto..."

"Detective, I have to agree with Holmes. This was not a heart attack. The body does display some of the common features of one, but there is more amiss than I can place my finger on."

"Why should I trust your opinion?"

Before John could answer, Holmes was defending his honor. "As an Army Doctor, I am sure that John has seen enough death to know when a dead body was placed there by natural causes or not. Therefore his credentials make him more qualified than this  _thing_." Holmes waved a dismissive hand at the MediAuto. "Or you, for that matter." Holmes turned his glare to the inspector.

Lestrade gave a light huff. His eyes scanned the room and John could see some of the tension leave his shoulders and defeat replace it. "Never liked these stupid MediAutos anyway." The detective turned to Holmes. "Well?"

"Allow me."

* * *

In ten minutes time, Lestrade was ready to admit defeat. John had tried to voice the fact that they had cigarettes laced with the poison in 221B, but Holmes had shushed him before he was barely able to form the thought.

Lestrade got off the rotary after speaking with his superiors. He was about to inform them of what he had been told when the phone began to chime again. Lestrade answered it.

"Yes, I'll inform him sir." He hung up the phone with a sour expression. "Tonight is the welcome dinner from Captain Martin [to] a select few passengers. He would be honored if you would join him."

"Only if Watson is invited."

Lestrade arched an eyebrow. "It would be assumed that you bring a date."

"I'm not his date!"

The two men turned an to eye John, who was then a pleasant shade of pink. "However, I would like to accompany him as a friend."

* * *

Holmes sipped on his tea with a look of utter contempt on his face. John could tell that the other passengers were giving the two a wide berth, but that didn't bother him. Being out again in the parlor, John was reminded that he was on a airship and not in a murder mystery novel. He tried to see the world as he normally would but something had shifted.

"What is your profession?"

"Um?"

"You deducted everything about me when we met, so there was no mystery, but I, on the other hand, know almost nothing about you. What is your profession, when you are not occupied with your chemistry or murder?"

A small smile creeped over Sherlock's features. "If you must know, that is my normal activities: amusing myself with my chemistry set and playing detective."

John found that he could not contain his laughter. Thankfully, he had already swallowed his tea. "Brilliant! I would expect nothing less." He was happy to see his smile reflected in the detective's eyes.

"How will you be occupying your time once you return to London? Going for another tour?"

"No, my army days are over." John raised his left shoulder slightly. "Honestly, I don't know what I plan on doing. Maybe I'll open a small practice. Living on an army pension is difficult in any circumstance, but in London..."

Holmes set his tea on the side table and placed his fingers together. John watched as he closed his eyes, as if concentrating on what he was going to say next with greatest care.

"You might be curious to know that I am currently looking for a flatmate."

 


	4. Arch 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: twolovesonestone

John did not realize what he was getting into when he agreed to accompany (as a friend!) Holmes to the Captain's dinner. He knew that he was going to get the 'does he belong here with us looks?' but John had not been prepared for the rest of it.

Really, he had forgotten about most anything else other than the proposal from Holmes' to be his flatmate once they arrived in London.  _This is ridiculous. I don't even know the man. I only met him, 42 hours ago!_ Yet the most insistent part of his brain was thrilled at the prospect. He had told Holmes' that his plan was to open a practice but that did not mean that he  _wanted_ to open one. It was a necessity, and an evil one at that.

John straightening his bow tie and took one final critical look in the mirror. His mustache was pointed so sharp it could cut someone and he had shaved so close that there wasn't a single piece of stubble. His hair was slicked back and he had used a subtle amount of cologne. The part that worried John the most was that the tuxedo was almost more than five years old and with the constant changing fashion, John was sure he would look outdated.

Especially standing next to Sherlock.

If the cut of his regular suits was going to be any indication, than his tuxedo(s) was sure to be immaculate and of the highest fashion. John bit his lower lip. It was a foolish thought but what if he embarrassed Holmes with his outfit? He couldn't bear the humiliation. For more than the first time that evening, John wondered if he should just decline the invitation.

A knock came at the side door.

"Enter."

John let out a shuttering breath as the doorknob turned.

John tried his hardest not to gasp.  _Oh, god._ He could not believe the vision that stood before him. The tuxedo looked as if it was a second skin and the top hat only accented his curls. Holmes' had not put any product in his hair and the mass seemed less tame than usually, which only caused him to look more alluring.

Holmes' cheeks were a rosy pink. They brought attention to his cheekbones and John realized there was another feature of Holmes that he still had yet to discover. The longer he looked, the more difficult John found it to not want to brush his hand through those curls and cup Sherlock's cheeks to see how sharp they really were.

"Doctor, I must say you look dashing."

Sherlock could barely keep it out of his eyes-that the real reason his cheeks were flushed was from seeing Watson. Sherlock had never known that a human being could look so sexual and yet boyish at the same time. The most beautiful aspect about John's person was that he never assumed he was handsome or deserved praise. Sherlock found that the information he had stored earlier, when they had been sitting on John's bed together, came back in a flood. Deep crystal blue eyes. Warm breath.

"Holmes are you alright?"

Sherlock re-adjusted his eyes to focus on the man next to him.

"Shall we be going?" Sherlock gestured to the front door of John's cabin.

John misread Holmes' earlier silence as shock inducted by seeing his ill-fitting dining dress. Before Holmes had walked more than a foot to the door, John voiced his uncertainty. "I won't embarrass you, will I?"

Holmes turned back to face him, confusion in his features but it disappeared quickly. "Whatever for? You look the picture of daring suave." Holmes turned back to the door and opened it before John could say another word.

* * *

"This is my companion, Doctor John Watson. My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is a pleasure to met your acquaintance Captain Martin." The Captain gave each of them a hearty handshake and they sat down at the table.

It was an intimate affair with only sixteen guests. John guessed that it made up the wealthiest and most pompous of the passengers on the Nautilus. This was not a 'meal among friends' but a 'let us see what connections I can make' sort of affair. John took a larger than necessary sip of the champagne that had just been opened and poured into his crystal wine glass.

He was slowly introduced to the other dinner guests. A member of parliament, a predominate automaton mechanic, a famous pilot and a noble prize winning scientist, were among the few impressive titles he heard. John tried to remember their names but knew it was a loss cause.

"It is very nice to add your company to our own Mr. Holmes. You and your brother are a constant topic. How is your brother, Mycroft Holmes?"

Holmes' eyes tightened around the edges. "I do not believe that my brother needs to be a topic at this table."

John was surprised to see that the man did not look offended but instead had a knowing smile on his lips.

"While your brother might not be a topic that can be broached, how is your mother? I so miss her dinner parties. Do you believe she will be entertaining again this season?"

Holmes closed his eyes, evidently gathering strength not to lash out at the poor man. "As stated, I do not think my family, in any capacity, needs to be mentioned. I was unaware that this invitation was just an excuse to inquire as to my families actions."

John quietly took another sip of his champagne. Who was Sherlock Holmes, that all these wealthy, influential people wanted to know about every member of his family? It struck John like a ton of bricks and nearly kicked the oxygen out of his lungs.

They were asking all these questions because  _Sherlock was one of them too._ The upper crust, the movers of the chess game. What had he gotten himself into?

"My apologizes, Mr. Holmes, that wasn't our intention." Captain Martin made a placating smile at his guests. "Let us start with the hors d'oeuvres."

The meal was spent in sociable but rigid conversation. John was happy that Holmes was there or else the meal would have been utter hell. Holmes had taken to making side remarks that only John could hear and although they had horrified him at first, it was now the only thing keeping John from stabbing his eye with a fork from boredom. It had been a deduction here or a snide remark there and it made John giggle like he was in primary school all over again.

"So, Doctor Watson, you were in the military?"

John stopped mid-smirk, (Holmes had just told him that the Captain's 'date' was a paid woman) to try and look the professional role. "Yes, I served in her royal majesties army as a surgeon in Afghanistan."

Some of the women gasped. One of them exclaimed, "It must have been so terrifying!"

"Danger does not frighten the good doctor; in fact, it does the opposite."

John turned to Holmes, at a lose for words. Thankfully the parliament member's wife spoke. "I am surprised to learn that you were in the military. You clean up so nicely. Some of the 'army types' can be so brass and uncivilized. What does your family do?"

John Watson tried to keep the critical look out of his face. How was he suppose to answer such a rude question? Next they were going to ask to see his certificate of pedigree.

"My dear madam, as my family is my personal business, so is John's to him. All you need to know, is that he is an exceptional man and I am proud that he allows me to call him friend."

Holmes had saved him again. John was flabbergasted.

Sensing the drastic change in atmosphere, the Captain cleared his throat. "Mr. Holmes, why don't you tell us the details of the man you found? I believe you said he was murdered?"

This caused the women to gasp even louder.

Sherlock harpooned a brussels sprout. "No, not a murder. It was just a heart attack, as the MediAuto stated. Who am I to challenge an automaton?"

The mechanic laughed. "A very true statement my good sir. Those machines are worth more than half the man on the force. As a Maker, I have every confidence in their ability to outwit most."

Captain Martin nodded his head approvingly. "I am happy that you saw the error of your ways. It takes a gentleman to admit when he has been bested."

Sherlock raised his wine glass in mock salute.

The mechanic turned to the man on his right. "Professor Moriarty, I believe that you as well have some history as a Maker?"

The man expelled a boring sounding sigh. He had been the most quiet of the guests through the whole dinner, barely having said two sentences.

"Yes, my past work was with mechanics. As of late, I have advanced to more elegant fields of work."

Sherlock let out a chuckle and John felt a pang of jealousy.

"I actually helped develop the Nautilus. However, I do not consider her my crowning achievement."

"Might I ask what that is?" Sherlock genuinely asked.

Professor Moriarty smiled in a way that reminded John of the young man who had tried to poison him. "Spoilers. As you do not wish to talk of your family, nor do I wish to discuss my work."

John's eyes darted between the two men. There was a silent conversation going on between the two of them but John could only catch the static.

* * *

By the time dessert arrive, John was more than ready to call it a night. However, due to propriety (and the fact that he could not leave before Holmes) he nipped at his Crème brûlée in a half-hearted manner. Holmes had shifted his attention from the doctor to the professor, and John was none to pleased about it. He tried to chat up the young woman next to him.  _Not to make Holmes jealous. How long has it been since I talked to a pleasant young woman? I will enjoy this._ Yet his words sounded forced in his own mind.

To John's displeasure he soon learned that the young woman, Ms. Morstan, was as two-dimensional as a person could be. John Watson was a great lover of feminine features, but only when it was accompanied with a personality. Ms. Morstan was trying too hard to laugh at every joke and although it seemed like polite curiosity, all the questions she was asking him felt like prying.

"Come Watson, let us retire. I bid you all a fine and restful remainder of the evening."

John was all to happy to pop up from his chair. He made empty promises to call on Ms. Morstan at a later time and made a hasty retreat.

* * *

John followed Holmes into his cabin without even thinking. Holmes walked over to his violin and being to play a low mournful tune. John had not really heard what Holmes was capable of with a violin before, but within a few minutes he realized Holmes could join any orchestra is he so desired. He let his mind move past those thoughts and John closed his eyes. The music began to vibrate in his veins and transport him to another place.

John began to see visions of colors and his body felt electric shots of fire throughout it, starting from his limbs and radiating in and then back out. Sherlock was such an unpredictable man. John had gathered that 'social graces' was not something he was skilled at and yet Sherlock made every effort to comfort, protect and please him. His arms uncrossed themselves and John could feel the tension leaving his body. He was slowly falling asleep in the over stuffed chair; the dinner party had gone on well past 11 pm.

He was right on the brink of sleep when a sweet voice brought him back to reality.

"The Captain, he knows."

 


	5. Arch 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fantastic Beta: twolovesonestone

John stared at the ceiling, so exhausted that he couldn't sleep. Holmes' words still rang in his ears.  _The Captain, he knows._  Almost being poisoned? The captain knew that had been happening and had been allowing it? Well, it explained why Holmes had recanted his previous statement to Lestrade, but it left John with more questions than answers.

He drifted off into a fitful sleep. Although he had only been away from the war for six months, he had surprisingly had no nightmares or any issues of 'revisiting' the front. He had been a surgeon but that did not mean that he did not gotten occasionally shot at.

Hell, he had been shot.

This, this was a first for him. John could hear the non-distinct screaming all around him. The laser blasts, the smoke, the fear...it felt so real. His subconscious was trying to tell him that it was all a trick, that he was really in an airship hundreds of miles away floating in the air, but his mind couldn't accept it.

Sherlock's words danced. _Danger does not frighten the good doctor; in fact, it does the opposite._  He was right, it wasn't the danger that was giving him the nightmare, it was the not knowing. In Afghanistan he knew why he was getting shot at, now...

He felt himself tossing and turning on the cusp of awareness but still drowning in his nightmare. John let out a small scream that only came out as a moan.

"John!"

John's eyes shot open and blackness flooded into his vision. He could feel the clammy sweat on his forehead and he took a few gulps of air. His eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light. The moon was flooding the cabin with a dim light, he had forgotten to shut the blind.

"Feel better?"

John's hand searched blindly until he found what he was looking for. Sherlock's hand felt like an anchor. It was calloused but soft and infinitely warm. He shut his eyes and took one more shuddering breath.

"You keep calling me 'John'.

Holmes didn't answer him. John almost hadn't been expecting a reply. Instead he looked out towards the horizon, the sun was rising. What would this day hold? John hoped, if anything, that it would bring some balance back into his world.

"Does it bother you?"

Of all the replies or questions that could have answered John's remark, that had not been expected. Sherlock almost sounded wounded and it broke something in John.

"Not if I can call you Sherlock." John squeezed Sherlock's hand, because it now felt that he was the one who needed the comfort.

"It's not going to get easier. I would say that you could 'cut ties' but they seem to have a tie to you."

John didn't know how to properly form the question without sounding desperate. How could he have been brought to this state? Sherlock was challenging him in ways John would have never thought possible. John decided to insert his question into a torrent of speech.

"This is so big Sherlock and I am not normally the type of person who would get mixed up in this, whatever this is. I may be the man with the gun but you're the man with the brain. The steel may protect me but at this moment it seems so insignificant. We are out floating above the Atlantic Ocean with no land in sight. Can I depend on you? Because I know you can depend on me."

John had barely let out the last syllable of his speech before Sherlock quickly said, "Yes. Yes, you can trust me, John."

John smiled.

He watched as the left side of Sherlock's lip curled up in a smile. His goggles had been pushed up in his curls and now that John was paying attention, he could smell the slight smell of sulfur on him. He made such a breathtaking sight in the breaking dawn.

"Thanks Sherlock. You can go back to your work now."

Sherlock gave John a questioning look. Is it really okay? It asked. John let out a laugh. "Yes, contrary to how I have been acting, I don't normally need coddling. I'll fall right back to sleep. Go on then."

Sherlock turned around and asked nonchalantly, "Join me for breakfast?"

John turned over on his side and drew his duvet tight. "Wouldn't miss it."

* * *

John shuffled into Sherlock's cabin. He hadn't even bothered putting on his suit, instead he had just throw his robe over his pajamas.

Sherlock was diligently looking through a pile of notes on his work desk. John could tell that Sherlock would need sleep soon and John promised himself that, just as he had gotten him to eat, he would also get him to sleep.

"Discover anything?"

"We're being kept prisoner."

"You mean 'us' or the whole airship?"

"The whole ship. It's not exactly 'against our will' per se, but I have a feeling that there are some things developing on the continent and in London that we are not suppose to know about."

John found it endearing the way that Sherlock said 'we', as if he, John Watson, would really add anything to their friendship. Partnership? All John knew was if Sherlock needed assistance, then he would be there to provide it.

"Let's go get a cuppa and I'll purchase the newest edition of Morse News. There might be something in it."

"Don't be an imbecile."

John glared at him.

"You know what I mean."

Indeed, John did.

* * *

John sipped on his cup of tea.  _Drinking English tea is such a refreshing exercise in one's humanity._  John Watson was a serious man when it came to his tea. It calmed his nerves and it was a good thing that it did, too. As it was, he still let out a yelp of alarm that made a few guests give him questioning looks.

"Sherlock, look at this."

Sherlock looked over the article that John pointed out in the Morse News. "How unoriginal."

John hissed. "It's a cipher! A bloody cipher in the bloody Morse News."

"Doctor, do control your language."

"Not such a moronic idea now, is it?" John couldn't keep the boastful pride out of his voice. Hell, he didn't want too. Let Sherlock be on the receiving end of it for once.

John's attention was distracted by the man approaching him and Sherlock. It was DI Lestrade and he looked worse for wear. He tipped his hat in greeting to John and John did the same. Sherlock ignored him.

"Good morning gentlemen. I don't mean to sound presumptuous, but I need to know; did you find anything else? Something you're not telling me?"

"Is it gnawing at you, detective?"

Although he looked loath to admit it, Lestrade had quickly figured out that being truthful was the only way he was going to get any truth from Sherlock. "It just doesn't make sense. I should trust the MediAuto but the thing has been on the blitz more than once. Just tell me truthfully, was it murder?"

John kept his lips sealed knowing this was a decision that Sherlock had to make.

"You can occasionally trust your gut, Detective Inspector."

Instead of relieving the tension in the man's eyes, the sudden weight only seemed to intensify it. John could easily see why the man had gone gray at such an early age-the job meant everything to him.

"Will you at least try and keep me informed?"

"I cannot make any promises, but after John you will be the next to know."

This seemed to satisfy him for the moment and with a slight bow, he walked away.

"Can we trust him?" John had to admit that he respected Lestrade but that didn't mean he trusted him.

"I believe so. But it does not mean that he needs to be privy to every detail."

John's attention was drawn back to the newspaper. "Who do you think the message is from?"

"I have some theories but I need to test them. I will head back to my cabin. John if you would survey the airship I would be most thankful."

"Survey?"

"Read the atmosphere. Although my deduction skills are the best, you have a certain ability to read people. I can stay holed up this whole trip, but I believe that you cannot."

Sherlock was right. He usually was.

* * *

John found that he had been missing a real treat staying in their cabins all day and night. The Nautilus was truly a combination of top skill and craftsmanship. The way the spiral staircase was divided by a small fountain. The soft music that came through the high tech sound system; every conceivable elegance had been lavished on the dirigible. John distantly remembered that a ball was to happen take place soon, although he did not imagine that he and Sherlock would be attending.

He tipped his hat to a couple of women who passed. John eavesdropped on a conversation on the perks between using a blaster or a bullet-rifle. He watched two children fighting as their mother yelled at them. Everything seemed so human. So normal. It wasn't that John despised it, more that it was not the sort of life he wanted to lead.

John was actually lucky that he had not come from money, especially old money, and did not feel the pressure to either marry or have children. He had hoped for it one day but it would fade every time something more exciting presented itself.

Before, it had been the war. Now it was Sherlock Holmes.

_If we make it out of this alive I will be his flatmate._ John couldn't fathom why Sherlock would need a flatmate, with all the money he had, but he doubted that Sherlock accepted 'spending money' like so many rich sons did. If the last few days he had spent with him were any indication, then life in London would prove more exciting than ever.

John went out onto the deck. It was enclosed in glass and stretched out along the right side of the Nautilus. There were deck chairs and a game of shuffle board. A few men sat smoking cigars and one young girl was reading a book.

He brought his hand up to the glass and looked out. With no land and only sea, the horizon stretched out before him. The cloudless air accented an aqua sea meeting the soft blue of the sky; it had a calming effect on John.

He closed his eyes and was able to focus on the soft buzz of the engine and the propellers. It was a soft 'whooshing' sound and just as pleasant to listen to as the sound of waves crashing on the bow of a ship could be. John leaned against his cane. Sherlock had been right, he needed the view of outside to calm his nerves. The mad scientist could be a hermit but the solider could not.

Sherlock's features danced tantalizingly in front of John's closed eyes. If Sherlock were a woman, he would be perfect; soft flawless pale skin, a mess of silky curls and a lean graceful body. John knew that Sherlock would never be a woman, nor would he ever find a woman who was like Sherlock.

Slowly the John in his mind reached his hand out to Sherlock and brushed his hands over the raven colored curls. He felt himself being pulled closer, Sherlock had hooked his right arm around John's waist. Gently, tantalizing, John's hand moved away from the curls to touch the cheekbones that had caught his attention. Instead of cutting, they brushed against his palm softly and sent a flurry of emotion to his brain and groin.

He hadn't meant for it to be sexual, just an exploration of something that fascinated him. Sherlock fascinated and awed him. John saw that Sherlock's white shirt was unbuttoned more than usual and he took a long look at the inviting neck before him. It would be so easy to reach out and place a kiss on it. Just one open mouthed touch to feel and experience him like few had.

John could feel Sherlock's thumb making small circle motions on the dip of his back. His spine sent up waves of electricity from the simple touch. Sherlock's other hand came up to John's chest and his breath hitched. John could see his own question reflected in Sherlock's eyes. He tilted his head up and his lips hovered over Sherlock's skin, understanding that if he did it, it would take their relationship to another plane.

"Doctor Watson. How pleasant to see you!"

John let out a small gasp and his head whipped around to see Ms. Morstan standing at his side. "I'm sorry, did I disturb you?"

John wasn't sure if he was happy or frustrated she had. "No, not at all, Ms. Morstan."

 


	6. Arch 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: twolovesonestone 
> 
> Song that Sherlock & Holmes dance to is Caravan Palace-Clash (Original Mix)

He still couldn't believe that he had promised to go with Ms. Morstan to the ball. John was astounded that she even wanted to go with him. He had only been inquiring because he had ran out of topics to talk about, and then he had asked, only trying to be polite. And instead of getting a refusal, he was answered in the affirmative.

John dragged his legs back to cabin 221B. All he wanted to do was have a cup of tea (made with Sherlock's bunsen burner) and prop his feet up. When he opened the door, Sherlock was hanging the top half of his body over the bed and his legs were perched up above. John just made his way over to the overstuffed wing chair, which he had unceremoniously cleared earlier, and sat down.

"We're going out tonight."

"Can't. I've got a date."

"Whatever for?"

John sighed. "The ball is tonight and I promised to take Mary."

"Mary?"

"Ms. Morstan."

"What transpired to place you at a first name acquaintance with the lady?"

John rolled his eyes. "It was an accident. I felt like a trapped man. I will never understand social niceties."

"You will be pleased to know that the note came from my brother."

John's eyebrows perked up. "What did he say?"

"Be careful."

John slumped back into his chair, his last bit of energy being zapped out as quickly as it had flown in. "Well, that's useful." John narrowed his eyes.  _Why would anyone run the risk for such a baseless message?_ "That's really all the it said? Just 'be careful'?"

Looking slightly peeved, Sherlock ignored John's question."If my brother feels the need to warn me, then we are indeed treading in dangerous waters." Sherlock's upper body shot up and he readjusted so that he was sitting in a crouched position on the bed. "There could be more to the message and either the machine got it wrong on accident, or on purpose."

"You mean, just let enough through?"

"Exactly."

Sherlock sat crouching for a few minutes and pressed the pads of his fingers in his 'I'm thinking don't talk to me' style. John got up and made himself a cup of tea. He was contemplating if he would need to iron his shirt for the evening when Sherlock spoke again.

"I think I will be going to the Royal Gala Ball too."

"Seriously?"

"Why would I joke about this?" Sherlock gave him a scrutinizing look.

John debated on whether or not he should actually try and explain it to Sherlock. "Never mind." Thankfully common sense had won out.

* * *

_I will never get used to these damn formal parties. Why do I have to dress up like a penguin! I don't even want to go!_  John knew that his insides were rebelling at the sight in front of him. Although he was a man who knew how to enjoy a party, this was not one that he looked forward to with pleasure. Spending an hour dressing and priming himself to still look ridiculous was not his idea of an evening well spent.  _Maybe I'll feign being sick. Salmonella poisoning or..._ The good doctor ran through his medical knowledge to try and figure a good (but not too perfect) disease to have caught in the last twelve hours.

He was on dismissing  _chickenpox, no._  when Sherlock walked through their adjoining door.

John had never seen a tuxedo that was anything but the color black. Somehow, Sherlock's tuxedo was a midnight blue. It was only hinted at in highlights, but it was there, drawing attention to all the curves of his body. Like every other outfit Sherlock had worn, this one was tailored to his exact measurements. He had tried to slick back his hair, but there was one errant curl that fell across his brow.

John felt his insides start to tighten and then loosen. It had been quite a while since John had experienced 'butterflies' and it took him a moment to collect himself. It would soon be time to face the fact that Sherlock was affecting him in ways that no other man ever had. Hell, a way no one ever had.

Sherlock bit his lower lip. "Ms. Morstan will be pleased to see that you 'cleaned up' so nicely for her."

The unsaid ending, '.. _.more so than you did when it was dinner with me._ ' Hung in the air but both men choose to ignore it.

"Let us be on our way."

* * *

Sherlock and John got separated very quickly. It was a whirlwind of dancing, drinking and merriment. John politely chatted with Ms. Morstan and her friends. After having called her 'Mary' to Sherlock that once, John did not call her by her Christian name again. Sherlock had made it seem that the only person he was allowed to speak of that intimately was him alone and John didn't want to be the one to soil it.

He laughed when prompted and played the part so well that he almost began to believe that he was having an enjoyable time. John had a feeling it was the copious amounts of alcohol that he was tipping down his throat that was the real factor in uplifting his attitude.

John danced a few dances with Ms. Morstan and focused his energies on feeling her soft curves on his hands. Where Sherlock was sharp edged, she was soft and supple. Yet John was not feeling his body respond like it normally would; no quickening pulse, heavy feeling in his chest or if he was honest with himself: lust. He simply did not desire her.

Throughout the evening as he spotted guests, that had been at the dinner the night before, he made every effort to be cordial to them.  _Maybe I can get the hang of this_. It was the last thought that John had before he caught sight of them.

It was Sherlock and Captain Martin's woman talking together. John watched as Sherlock actually laughed at something she said. The now familiar jealousy began to rub against his mind. _No, I am ignoring this. He is free to talk to whoever he pleases; as am I._  To prove his point, he turned to Ms. Morstan and started a lively conversation about the coming Christmas party season-all the usual gossip.

He felt a finger tap his shoulder. John turned around to see Sherlock standing before him. He had one white glove encased hand stretched out towards him.

"Care to dance?"

"Oh god yes."

John paid little heed to the startled face of Ms. Morstan when Sherlock took him in his arms. John felt Sherlock's shoulders flex under his hand. They weren't dancing to a waltz. A new wave of music and dance had hit the upper crust, just as it had the lower. With the automatons, music had been taken to a level it would never have obtained without them. The energy of it wrapped around them. John had never heard the song before, but it captured him instantaneously.

John could feel his self restraint slipping away.

The velvet of Sherlock's glove sent a shiver up John's spine. It felt more sexual, to have skin so close but still a lifetime away. John could still remember how Sherlock's hand had felt when they had held hands after John's nightmare.

Their legs picked up pace with the music; joined hands dipped up and down. John could feel his head spinning, they were bounding, twirling around the ballroom. He took his eyes off of Sherlock's chest and looked up into his face. John could feel Sherlock burning a hole into him with his eyes.  _Those eyes_. Lined with green tinted with yellow. How could so many colors be represented in a pair of eyes?

Sherlock's grip tightened on John's waist.

Sherlock's hand was dangerously low on John's lower back. The way his opened palm pressed into his back made John see no one but Sherlock.  _The way he's touching me, could he want this too?_  The song called for a dip and Sherlock bent his lean body over John's.

Without warning, the feel of Sherlock's body on his intensified. He could have sworn he felt Sherlock's heart beating through his shirt. It's just from dancing. Sherlock's eyes answered him,  _Yes, from dancing, but only because I am dancing with you_. Sherlock took their bodies out of the dip and John was left with a cold sensation were warmth had been.

Sherlock shook his head, as though he were trying to clear it. "John, there was a reason for this." He fluttered his eyes quickly. "I believe we may be in more danger than first anticipated."

John's face grew serious. "I brought my gun." They made another twirling circle and John felt his sense of the room flood back [to] him. Although he wanted to be in a world [where] it was just him and Sherlock, now was not the time.

Sherlock smirked. "I knew you would, doctor." The song ended and Sherlock separated from him without another word. John went back to Ms. Morstan and kept on as if nothing had happened, but instead of allowing alcohol to dull his mind, he kept his eyes at sharp alert.

He perked up when he noticed Sherlock talking to a very recognizable young man. _It's the bastard who tried to poison me._  John watched, scrutinizing their every move, but Ms. Morstan asked a question and John's attention was distracted for one second. When he turned back they were gone. John surveyed the ballroom but was unable to find the two men. After quietly excusing himself, he went to 221B, but Sherlock wasn't there.

_Where could they have gone? Where?_

John felt panic gripping at him. Think, damn you! John's eyes widened and he dashed out of the cabin. He ran through the Nautilus avoiding detection, he made his way to the library. He slammed open the door, only to realize too late that he was on the second floor. John looked out over the railing and took out his gun. He spotted two figures in the corner struggling.

"Sherlock!"

Neither man looked up from their gripped combat and what John saw next sent a shiver up his spine. The man had a dagger and was raising it over Sherlock. There was a struggle. John couldn't tell if the man was overpowering Sherlock or it had been the element of surprise; either way, the end result did not bode well for Sherlock. What John did next he did without thinking. He steadied his aim and as the man was about to plunge the dagger down into Sherlocks's shoulder, John released a single shot.

The bullet thudded into the man's back and he crumpled. John saw Sherlock stare up at the place he stood, but seeing that Sherlock was unwounded, John had crept back into the shadows and out of the library.

* * *

John waited in their cabin for Sherlock to return. He had taken off his overcoat and loosened his tie, but after that John had to make a cup of tea to settle his shaking hand. He was running on pure adrenaline, a high he hadn't felt in so long and it felt  _fantastic_. His mind danced around the words he and Sherlock would exchange but nothing had any weight for him; he needed to see the man.

Sherlock softly opened the cabin door and slowly closed it behind him. "That was a crack shot John." Sherlock walked over to the other wing chair and unfastened his tie.

John took a quiet sip of tea. "Anytime." Sherlock then undid the first three buttons of his evening shirt.

"You did just kill a man."

"He wasn't a very nice man."

Sherlock smiled. "No, I suppose he wasn't."

John grew serious. "What were you thinking? You could have been killed."

The glow went out of Sherlock's eyes and he looked chest fallen. "Sorry. I...I've never had anyone who cared about that before."

"You never...?"

John got up and stood in front of Sherlock. Unaware of what he was doing, John got down on his knees and gripped the other man's hands. They were now ungloved and John rubbed his thumb over the veins on the top of Sherlock's hands.

"Don't you ever doubt that there isn't someone out there who cares." John looked up to stare straight into Sherlock's eyes. "You're not allowed to be reckless with your life anymore."

Sherlock nodded.

John cleared his throat and stood up. "Now tell me what you learned."

 


	7. Arch 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: twolovesonestone
> 
> The first part, before the first divider line, is a flashback-from Sherlock's POV.

"It was random before, now it's personal."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man. "Threatening me will not do you any good."

There was an evil curl to the man's lips that twisted his face. "It's not me you need to fear Mr. Holmes, it's my employer. You have a fan."

"What do you mean by that?" He was the boastful type, if Sherlock could just prod his ego in the right place. "You seem far too self contained to need an employer." Sherlock took the sneer out of his voice and replaced it with genuine awe. Sherlock waited.

The young man smiled and then shook his head. "I might not be as smart as you, but I'm not that dumb." He withdrew a dagger from his pocket. "I wasn't sent to kill you, however if I did, I don't think anyone would be to heartbroken about it...well, no one except John."

Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously. He assessed the situation. He and the man were in the library, it had started as only a conversation, but it seemed as if the man had murder on his mind.

Sherlock barely said it above a whisper, but rage laced his words. "Don't you  _dare_ use John's name."

He man laughed and he raised the dagger. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock grabbed the man's arm but he was stronger than Sherlock had anticipated. The man had a glint in his eye as he forced his hand down slower against Sherlock's protests. Instead of fighting it, Sherlock began to calculate how he could angle the dagger so that it only struck the upper part of his shoulder.  _Must make sure its nothing vital._

There was a single shot and it ripped through the air. The man slumped down and Sherlock looked up to the second floor.  _Good, he's already gotten away_. Sherlock waited quietly for the curious crowds and Lestrade to arrive.

* * *

John saw Sherlock spill a bit of the acid he was working with. He cursed and threw the papers in the garbage bin. Sherlock had been distracted ever since their conversation; John had been thinking that Sherlock had hidden something from him, now he was sure.

Which only served to heighten his curiosity.

John decided that going over the facts of the case might be a better idea.  _Someone had been trying to poison different men on the airship. A man had been killed. Betrayal._  Sherlock had told him that the man, Mr. Abbé , had been a main architect on the design of the Nautilus, so that cleared up some of the mystery.  _Information being stopped. Mycroft Holmes had felt the need to warn his brother. John rolled his eyes. Some help that message had been._  Last but not least, Sherlock had almost been stabbed and John had shot a man. An exciting few days to be sure.

John stretched. It was past midnight but John had not gone back to his cabin. Although he knew that Sherlock was safe, he still felt uneasy leaving his presence.

"If you are so worried doctor, you can leave the partition open."

John stood up. "I believe I will. Have a pleasant evening Sherlock." As an afterthought, John said, "You might want to get some sleep."

Sherlock continued to write down formulas in his notebook. "Yes, John."

* * *

John snuggled deeper under the duvet. After a few moments, he rolled off his bed and stood up. He walked over to the small window in his cabin and stared out at the sea and sky. It was no longer a crystal blue, but gray; black clouds were rolling in. John heard the distant sound of thunder.

He took his eyes off of the darkening skies, at the sound of voices coming from Sherlock's cabin. John slipped on his robe and tied the belt. He didn't bother dressing because he had recognized it as the voice of one over exhausted officer.

"Good Morning, Lestrade."

The detective smiled at John. It was the smile of a drowning man who thought he had finally spotted a life preserver. "Dr. Watson, good morning."

Sherlock interrupted him. "The Detective Inspector was just telling me that he had the good fortune of making the acquaintance of my brother."

"I was informed that it was you who shot Mr. Abbé last night."

John felt his throat tighten. Would he be sent to jail? "I can explain."

"No need to John. I already have, and apparently so has Mycroft."

Lestrade fidgeted with the bowler hat in his hands. "I asked if you would keep me informed. I think shooting a man is something I should have been told about."

John smiled. "Sorry, Lestrade. It was all rather sudden. I promise it was never my intention to cause you more trouble."

Sherlock made a point of sighing over sarcastically. "Yes, yes; we see the error of our ways." He picked up his violin and began to play a slow tune.

Lestrade gave John one last look and left the room. John took the kettle and turned on the small burner. He smiled when he noticed that Sherlock had already refilled the water to the top. He knew they had matters to discuss, but the violin was so soothing; so he sat down on his chair and picked up the book lying over its arm; it was a small battered book, it fell open in his lap. Lazily, John's eyes began to scan over the words:

'Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it,

Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,

Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it,

Not to partake thy passion, my humility.'

John's eyes don't move from the page even as the violin stopped playing. He began to hear the soft splatter of rain hitting the window; the low rumble of thunder. John tried to regulate his breathing, but he could feel his heart beating through his chest; doubtlessly, Sherlock could hear it too.

"Have you ever had a broken heart, Watson?"

All John could sensed of Sherlock was his voice. He tried to read the emotion behind it but Sherlock was too trained at hiding his emotions to let anything out-or so he had thought. John heard the sorrow, the slight pitch change when Sherlock spoke his name and how he had used his last name, despite their recent intimacy.

John wanted to turn around and face him, but he couldn't. 

"I don't know. I haven't gotten an answer yet."

Time stretched on. He had been hoping for Sherlock to make the next move but John couldn't take the weight of the silence any longer and spoke first. "It appears that you guessed my answer."

"I never guess."

John placed the book on the side table."Well, thank goodness, because you are bloody terrible at it."

John heard the sound of Sherlock putting his violin in its case. The tea began to whistle and John stood up to take it off the burner. He slowly filled up each cup with hot water and one tea bag. Two sugars for Sherlock.

They still hadn't looked at each other and John didn't know what he would do once he saw Sherlock again.  _Will he be able to see the admiration in my eyes? The devotion?_  John handed Sherlock his cup, his eyes averted. John had suddenly found the pattern on the carpet to be very interesting.

Their hands brushed against each other, and John felt his hand being violently jerked by Sherlock's hand. The cup flew from their hands and smashed against the floor.

John was thrown against the wall and Sherlock's body pinned him there. Sherlock's hand intertwined with his, crushing it. John's eyes widened in surprise and he looked up at Sherlock. His faced was flushed and there was something unreadable in his eyes.

"Do you want to know what the rest of the message said?" Sherlock spoke barely above a whisper and he never blinked; just continued searching John's eyes.

John found that his vocal chords wouldn't work, so he gave a slight nod. The feel of so much Sherlock around him was invading his senses, and taking away all rational thought.

"Be careful. Guard your emotions."

John felt a starburst, his senses all shook and he shivered. John lips parted and he released a shaking breath.

Sherlock's lips were on John's the next instant.

There was nothing kind in them; it was not the blush of a hesitant lovers lips. They were demanding and seeking, bruising in their veracity. John's hand reached up and took a fistful of the curls he had so desperately wanted to touch. John's other hand was thrown up over his head and Sherlock's hand ground against it.

Sherlock's lips were chapped and soft. John was so lost in the feeling of them that he gasped when he felt a tug on his lower lip to open his mouth. John hesitantly opened his mouth and Sherlock glided his tongue against John's upper row of teeth.

The kiss went from being violently insistent, to being filled with a burning lust. John felt as if Sherlock was trying to drink him in, touching every bit of his mouth with his own. John tentatively met Sherlock's tongue with his own. Every touch was warmer than the next and John was reminded that the only clothes he had on were a robe and a silk night gown.

Sherlock's fingers gripped onto his left hip and John could feel fingernails digging into his skin. The thought of Sherlock bruising him, John Watson being marked as his, only fueled the fire. John tipped his head and the new angle allowed him to explore more of the other man's mouth.

John released his mouth from Sherlock's and began to kiss his neck. He placed a soft kiss on his adam's apple and went back up to nibble on his earlobe. "I suppose this makes my answer 'No'." John's voice was slightly hoarse and he continued his assault on Sherlock's ear and the soft skin underneath it.

Sherlock's hand left his hip and began to loosen the knot on John's robe. He opened it and placed his hand on John's lower stomach. John's breath hitched and his stomach muscles grew so tight it almost hurt.

Sherlock was wearing about as much as John, which equaled to a pair of pajamas and a robe. John took his hand from Sherlock's hair and placed his hand on Sherlock's chest. He had wanted to feel his comforting heat on his palm, and he could feel Sherlock's erratic heartbeat.

He brought his lips back to Sherlock's; it was a quick succession of open mouthed kisses. Sherlock took his hand off of the one he had been pining to the wall, and brought it to John's face. He fingers were so long and they engulfed the right side of John's face. Sherlock's thumb brushed over John's lower lip, while the other four glazed across his cheek and hair.

John flicked Sherlock's nipple with the fingernail on his thumb. John felt a gasp come from Sherlock, so John repeated the action. This made Sherlock tip John's head with his hand and attack John's neck. It was mostly teeth that traced a path down his neck. Sherlock bit and swept his tongue in a lazy trail all the way to John's collarbone.

Sherlock pushed John's robe off his shoulder and began to bite his shoulder through his shirt. John inhaled a sharp breath; it was right on his wound.

"Are you alright John?"

John finally opened his eyes. The room shifted and his head began to ache. Everything around him shone in sharp colors and he couldn't get his eyes to focus.

John had enough time to feel a tinge of regret before he passed out.

 


	8. Arch 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: twolovesonestone
> 
> Please don't forget to review! :D

John woke to a crack of lightning. He blinked and felt the duvet over him.  _Did I really just do that?_ He wished a hole would open and swallow him, or maybe he could become invisible. John felt his body flare up with embarrassment and he frowned. His pupils slowly un-dilate as he stared up at the ceiling; soft lamp light bathed the cabin in a yellowish glow.

"I normally do not have that effect on people."

John turned his head to face Sherlock. He was sitting on the ottoman and his eyes looked sunken. John felt his heart ache and he was stunned by the veracity of it; it actually left him short of breathe.

John smiled. "Do you go around kissing many people? You didn't strike me as the type." He snaked his hand out from under the duvet and placed it palm up in invitation.

Sherlock took his right hand and his fingers brushed over John's palm. He traced each of John's fingers with concentration.

John smiled hesitantly. "I really don't know what to say."

Sherlock's fingers danced up from John's palm to his wrist. His thumb stretched out and his hand circled around it. "You don't need to say anything." Sherlock stood up from the ottoman and sat down on the bed. Sherlock placed his hand on John's chest. John snaked his other arm out from under the duvet and placed it over Sherlock's hand.

"Yes, I do." John looked up to Sherlock in all seriousness. "I do believe I would like to be your flatmate on our return to London." John was happy to see that that caused not only Sherlock's lips to smile, but his eyes as well. They were such beautiful eyes but they always looked either sad or angry. John hoped he would be able to change that.

Sherlock's eyes glistened in the lamp light; red around the edges. "Just as my flatmate?"

John wanted to throw him a witty remark in return, but Sherlock still looked so unsure. Instead, he took both his hands and stretched them out. Sherlock closed his eyes and bent down to barely brush his lips against John's forehead and lips.

John used his arms to maneuver Sherlock so that he was curled up onto John's side. He said one word, "Sleep." Sherlock took his hand and laced it with John's fingers and placed one final kiss on his chest before letting sleep deprivation overcome him.

* * *

John could not believe his luck. He and Sherlock sat at a dining table and Sherlock tentatively nibbled on an asparagus. The light-headiness had left him after their nap and John woke up feeling as if he were on top of the world. The rain still continued to beat down and the lightening was getting uncomfortably close. John was still marveling at the fact that he had kissed Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't wait to get back to their cabin and continue. Sherlock had wanted to forgo dinner, but John had refused; how could he concentrate if carnal hunger wasn't the only hunger he was feeling? John snorted at how utterly ridiculous that sounded.  _God, what am I allowing this man to do to me?_

They were enjoying a lively conversation (at least on Sherlock's side) about tobacco ash when a crack rocked the ship. A bright light accompanied it and John just assumed it was another lightening bolt. Sherlock, however, lowered his fork and narrowed his eyes.

John felt something metallic rub up against his thigh and he realized it was his gun. He took it from Sherlock and had enough time to give him a quizzical look before the doors to the dining room were thrown open.

"Don't nobody move!"

John turned to see the impossible.  _Air pirates! How?!_  There were more than a dozen of them filing into the dining room. Thankfully the room was mostly empty because it was late in the evening. One man was foolish enough to dash towards the east exit and he was shot in the back with the Beam. The woman who had been eating at the table with him shrieked; she was promptly shot too.

The Beam was a terrible weapon. The wound it left was so small and there was no blood, but death was not instantaneous. It paralyzed its victim and then slowly ate at their insides. It was a quiet, but not a painless death. The Beam was illegal, but John had still seen them in battle, watched as comrades and friends stared up at him in silent horror as their insides melted. John gripped his gun.

Sherlock didn't move a hair and John followed his example. The leader of the pirates sauntered up to Sherlock. He curled his lip in contempt. He slapped Sherlock hard and it took all of John's self-control not to shoot him. "Well, if it ain't the brilliant Sherlock Holmes in the flesh and blood."

The other pirates started to collect jewels and wallets from the terrified passengers, paying no heed to the scene that was unfolding. Sherlock gave no reaction at having been slapped. He lifted his chin and glared at the man. "It isn't my problem that your brother was a brainless  _twat_." The pirate's upper lip twitched and he smiled showing all of his rotten teeth.

Sherlock's eyes locked on to John; the message said  _Run!_ but John refused to leave Sherlock behind. John gritted his teeth and only minutely moved his head to one side, _no._

"Trying to distract me?" The pirate's voice dropped and the smile grew more vicious. "It won't work."

He whipped his head over to look at John. John barely had a second to make a life or death decision. John lifted his gun and pointed it directly at the man's chest and fired. It was the only time that John's spot on aim betrayed him.

The pirate didn't collapse, instead he laughed manically. "Come, come, Dr. Watson. We look like amateurs? No, I knew all about your little illegal weapon. Gave that bit away in the library, didn't we?" He proceeded to hit his chest with the butt end of his Beam and John heard the hard sound of diamond plated armor. "This little trick is infused with more than you'll ever understand." He turned and gave Sherlock a wicked look. "A gift from my employer."

"What do you want?"

The pirate gave a lazy smile and walked two steps over to John. He lifted the Beam and John felt it slam against his skull.

"Him."

* * *

John woke up feeling dazed and with the worse headache of his life. He felt a chill and tried to move his hands only to discover that they were cuffed behind his back, his legs also bound. John took in his surroundings, but he could gather nothing. The room was too generic to be of any use in gauging his location; all he could tell was that it was a storage area of some sort.

John saw a green glow and wondered if there was lighting leaking in from somewhere but he was unable to find its source. He eventually gave up and tried to struggle against his restraints but it soon proved to be pointless. His thoughts turned to Sherlock, everything else was just too depressing.  _Was he safe? Had that man used the Beam against Sherlock?_  John quickly blocked it all; maybe that topic was more terrifying than he had anticipated.

John drifted off again and when he woke, there was a figure standing over him with an Akari. Another man was taking off his foot restraints. "Get up doctor."

John opened his mouth to answer but it felt like it was filled with chalk. When John made no motion to move, the man who had taken off his leg restraints also roughly propped him up onto his feet. John felt his body sway and he collapsed down onto his knees. The two men laughed at him. The man with the Akari smacked his bad shoulder and John went down; he impacted the ground with such force that he almost lost consciousness again.

"Oi! We need him alive! Drag him back up and let's get a move on!"

John was once again dragged up to a standing position. He closed his eyes and sent out a silent prayer.

* * *

John could only stand in submissive silence as they removed his handcuffs. Then added a chemical cocktail; which they strapped to either side of him. They were two canisters bottles and each contained a clear liquid. John would have almost preferred it was a bomb, at least he had some training in that area.

"Well, doesn't this make a lovely picture."

The hairs on John's neck stood on end. He knew that voice, the voice that had captured Sherlock's attention a thousand years ago at that stupid dinner party.

Professor Moriarty moved so that he stood directly before him. John ached to strangle the life out the man. The smirk he gave John only deepened his rage.

"You'll never get away with this."

Moriarty laughed; he continued on longer than necessary, and when he was done he wiped a tear away. "Dear John, you are a riot. Now down to business."

* * *

John stood not even a hundred yards from Sherlock.

Sherlock made as if to start running for him. John yelled out. "STOP!"

He stopped half-way through the long stride he had been taking. "John?"

John calmed his nerves as he repeated the speech that had been given him. "Well, Sherlock Holmes, here we are. You have something I want, and I have something you want, maybe a trade?"

Sherlock didn't need to say anything, the confused look on his features said enough.

Then it was quickly replaced with the dawning of comprehension. "I would have thought hiding in the shadows would be above you."

A manic laugh cracked in the air. John wanted to turn around and look at the man, but he was too afraid too take his eyes off of Sherlock. "You never let me have any fun."

Moriarty sauntered his way out of the shadows. "I had hoped this would at least be entertaining, but that was until you both had to go and  _screw it up_  so royally!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took John's gun out. "It's not all that bad."

Moriarty shook his head. "Sherlock, Sherlock. Do you really  _fully_  comprehend my words?"

Sherlock produced three cigarette cases from his pocket. "Here. Take them."

Professor Moriarty crossed the rest of the distance between him and Sherlock. Moriarty took the cigarette cases from Sherlock's outstretched hand. "You just don't get it!" He threw the cases on the ground. With an unstoppable rage, Moriarty began to crush them with the heel of his foot.

"Don't play dumb, Mr. Holmes. I, of all people, know what you are capable of; what all of us are capable of."

John finally noticed the laser guide pointed on his chest. The dots were gliding over him, four or more in total.  _We're totally outnumbered. What can Sherlock ever hope to do?_ How could it end this way? They hadn't even had a chance to start. Yet, John was able to greet his destiny with a calm acceptance. If there was anyone who needed to escape the encounter alive, it was Sherlock.

"The vial is empty."

John snapped back to the conversation being volleyed back and forth between the two masterminds. Moriarty frowned. "I know, and that is why daddy is so angry. You weren't suppose to seduce him Sherlock, that was Morstan's job."

John blinked repeatedly.  _What?_


	9. Arch 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: twolovesonestone

"How was I to know that the doctor preferred the strong touch of a man, and you of all people. If it had chosen you, maybe we could have reached a compromise. But, no, no...it went to _HIM!_ "

John took his opportunity and pounced on Moriarty. "Sherlock! Run!" He didn't know how long he could hold on to the madman. John felt one of the canisters break. The warm liquid soaked through his shirt.

Instead of running, Sherlock stared at him in open mouthed horror. He lowed the gun slightly. John's mind screamed.  _I'm trying to save you! RUN!_

Moriarty snickered. "Really? Sacrificing yourself, for him? Well, this seals it." Moriarty had never struggled against John's grip. He just stood there; like a statue. Suddenly a dancing light appeared on Sherlock's forehead. John didn't need to see more than one for his hold on Moriarty to loosen, then he let go entirely and backed away.

"I know you killed Mr. Abbé. He discovered the real reason for the Nautilus, for the concentration of aether on the ship. A man who was so proud of his creation, you destroyed him."

Moriarty swayed his head back and forth. He sighed. "Blah, blah. Why are we stating the obvious? It's what you don't realize that you should be deducing, Mr. Holmes."

Professor Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes glared at each other. It was a battle of wills.

"Neither of you can leave here alive. I would say it was 'fun' but you destroyed five years of hard work. I can do it again, but I do not enjoy wasting my time." Moriarty raised his hand. His fingers forming to snap and signal the snipers.

The dot on Sherlock's forehead began to blink. John couldn't believe his eyes, it was morse code. Professor Moriarty lowered his hand. He cocked his head to the side.

"Really? Is that so?" Moriarty turned his head so that he was facing the direction of the sniper. "Know that if you are lying to me, I will  _skin_  you."

Moriarty looked over to Sherlock and then back to John. "Well, this is an interesting development. Gentlemen! We will have to continue this conversation a later date. I have business to attend too."

The professor began to walk away. John tried to come to grips with how the man had flip-flopped but it made no sense. All the signal had read was, 'I can do it'.

Sherlock lowered the gun. He had contemplated shooting him but it wasn't worth risking John. Sherlock cursed his weakness. He threw the gun aside and dashed to John as soon as Moriarty disappeared.

"Are you hurt?"

Fingers carefully and slowly undid the straps around his shoulders and chest. "Don't move." John didn't say a word as Sherlock slide the canister off and threw it as far as he could, it shattered against a far wall. He dropped the other canister at their feet. Sherlock ripped open John's shirt and it fell in a pile behind John. Next, Sherlock took off his jacket and rubbed it against John's chest, removing the liquid.

Finally, John found his tongue. "I'm fine, fine. You?"

Sherlock looked up at him; he was crouching rubbing at John's stomach with his jacket. "Yes." John tried to focus and not get distracted by what Sherlock was doing to him. I almost died.  _Focus_. "What is this?"

"Two compounds that when combined would have formed an acid. Thankfully you only shattered one when you, you..." Sherlock's voice petered out and he gripped the lower half of John in a hug. "Thank you, John."

* * *

John was back in his cabin. He had been shocked that there was no chaos on the ship, as if nothing had happened. John continued to scrub at his back and chest with soap and a rough brush.  _They were after us, only us._  John let the lukewarm water soak his tired muscles. He had a nice lump on his head and also there was bruising on his knees and shoulder. He could no longer see the soft bite mark that Sherlock had left, it filled John was a slight sadness.

All John wanted to do was touch every part of Sherlock and lose himself in him, but there were more pressing matters. M _s. Morstan was sent after me? For what? How did Moriarty know about Sherlock and his relationship?_ The question that confused John the most was what Moriarty had meant when he said, 'it went to him'. What had gone to him? Sherlock? Professor Moriarty didn't strike him as a scorned lover.

John rinsed off his body one last time and stepped out of the tub. He wrapped a towel around his waist. He shaved his face and brushed his teeth. The set order of it, calmed him. He put on a shirt and buttoned it up, and put on a pair of trousers. John wanted to slip into his night gown, but he needed to convey that he meant business.

He made his way into Sherlock's cabin. He was working at his chemistry set. He hadn't bathed and all he had done was throw a blanket around himself. Sherlock was working feverishly, not even glancing up when John entered.

After a few minutes had passed, Sherlock was still ignoring him. John wanted to scream, but he took in a deep breath and calmed his nerves. It hadn't only been him who had almost died just a couple of hours ago. Even though he seemed like a machine at times, John knew differently.

He walked over to Sherlock and placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. This caused all of Sherlock's frantic movements to stop. His hands hovered in mid-air as if his brain was stalling. "Sherlock we need to talk about this."

Sherlock's hands dropped. "I still don't have enough data. I need facts, I need..." His voice cracked. "I need to not care."

John squeezed Sherlock's shoulders. "Please don't say that."

Sherlock bowed his head. "If I had taken Mycroft's advice this wouldn't have happened. You wouldn't be in danger and I wouldn't feel so...so helpless."

John couldn't believe how open Sherlock was being. He was pretty sure it was the shock talking.

"Let me say what I think and if I'm right, just nod." Sherlock bobbed his head. John closed his eyes. "Okay, a man tried to poison me. The same man managed to poison the tenant in 221C, who was an architect for this airship. Mr. Abbé felt betrayed at the actions of Moriarty. Met Professor Moriarty and Ms. Morstan at the dinner party. At the ball, I was supposed to 'fall in love' with Ms. Morstan. I didn't. Pirates came and kidnapped me, to get to you. Something about you having a vial or getting a vial." Sherlock nodded his head.

"A vial? I understand the cigarette cases, but the vial? What was in it?"

Sherlock made no move to answer. John gritted his teeth. "I heard the mention of aether. I don't understand it very well but I did go to school. It's the spirit of everything, but you can't bottle it." John opened his eyes. "Can you?"

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "Bottle it. Control it. Have what makes up the very elements at your control. Moriarty was the one who created the thunderstorm. It was perfect, wasn't it? No one would pay any attention to 'just another' lightening strike. It was genius, John. I was a fool not too see it. I allowed myself to be  _distracted_. I never get distracted."

"Don't avoid my question."

"He didn't just bottle aether; he had concentrated aether. Do you understand the consequences of this? He didn't let it loose on the Nautilus, it got out on its own. No one can control that much raw energy."

"Why did it escape?"

Sherlock gave a deep sigh. "Aether is attached to strong emotions; love, hate."

John backed away from Sherlock, comprehension dawning. John squinted his eyes and covered his face with his hands. "It chose me?! What the hell does that even mean?!"

Sherlock got up from his stool and raised his hands in a calming motion. "John, calm down. It's going to be fine."

John felt the anger and fear rush into him. "No, it's NOT! It's not okay!" He licked his lips and jabbed his finger at Sherlock. "You, tell me what is going on right now!"

Sherlock dropped his hands in defeat. "Us. It chose you because of us."


	10. Arch 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alert! Alert! Sexy times ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful Beta: twolovesonestone

John blushed. He was shocked to hear his emotions so blatantly stated. "So what if I do?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes."John, you loving me isn't the problem! It's that I love you too."

John stored the words away to be processed at a later time. "Why did the aether choose me? You're the genius. I'm a nobody."

"That's why John!" Sherlock looked uncomfortable as he continued. "Your emotions are so real and so pure, there was no one it could have ever picked but you."

"How could Moriarty have ever hoped to use it to his advantage?"

"Don't you see? If you had fallen in love with Ms. Morstan, he could have manipulated you. When you chose me, you took away Moriarty's ability to control."

"Why didn't he just take you?"

" I would never have been a willing participant. I would have killed myself before I allowed that man to control you because of your feelings towards me."

John knew what he meant, but he still felt a need to clarify. "Suicide?"

"To keep you safe, John, yes. There is no question in my mind."

John didn't care that everything was still crashing down around him at an alarming speed. He just needed to feel Sherlock's lips against his. John finally allowed himself to rush forward and touch Sherlock.

Sherlock's sheet fell to the ground and John wrapped himself up around the half-naked man. They rubbed noses together, confirming that the other one was there. John's teeth tugged at Sherlock's lower lip and brought them down in a kiss. It was soft and slow, a lazy touch that they had not experienced before.

John's arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck and he was happy that Sherlock had not put on a shirt after all. He laced his fingers in Sherlock's hair and his other hand cupped the side of his neck. It was so long and slender, without thinking John's thumb found his heartbeat and he relished in the quick, erratic beat of it.

Sherlock's hands had wandered down to the rim of John's trousers. He began to untuck John's shirt and his fingers glazed across the small amount of exposed skin.

Sherlock began to dangle the tip of his tongue into John's mouth and they met. Sherlock flicked his tongue and left John's to trace the contours of his mouth. John snaked his own tongue around Sherlock's and traced along the top of his teeth.

He loved kissing Sherlock but he wanted more. Without breaking contact with Sherlock, John moved his lips across Sherlock's jawline. He nipped at the soft spot where his jaw bone met his neck.

As John glazed his lips across Sherlock's neck, he tasted something slightly acidic. "Why didn't you shower?" John mumbled against Sherlock's skin.

"How can I just 'take a shower'. If I had been naked in a tub, knowing that you, yards from me, were doing the same-how could you expect cleanliness to be the first thought to cross my mind?" John giggled.

Sherlock straightened his back. "I needed to write it all down while it was fresh in my mind. You lead me to unproductiveness, John."

John moved his lips away, a smirk played on his face. "Maybe we should stop. I would really hate it if you weren't able to record something because you were allowing me to lead you to being 'unproductive'."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes."I realized, however, when your hands left my shoulders, that I didn't really care about work as much as I should. Instead, my thoughts were only filled with you and what I could do to have your hands on me again."

With the declaration Sherlock placed a hard kiss on John's forehead and John did the same to Sherlock's neck.

"All you had to do was ask." John mumbled into Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock made quick work of John's shirt. His thigh started to rub against his crotch and John let out a moan. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's back and could feel his fingernails leaving marks.

With the soft light, Sherlock was able to finally take in what the pirates had done to John. He laid a tentative hand on John's shoulder and he flinched.

"I'm sorry."

John leaned his head back and rubbed himself against Sherlock's thigh, loving the delicious feel of friction. "If you want to make it better, mark me in a way they can't."

Sherlock placed a soft kiss on John's left shoulder. He gently pushed John over to the bed. John fell down in a sitting position and Sherlock got on his knees. Sherlock took his hand and rubbed it against the bulge in John's trousers. "Sherlock." John didn't care that his voice was hoarse with need, he just wanted Sherlock to continue whatever he was doing.

Sherlock began to unbutton the top of John's trousers and John raked his fingers through Sherlock's hair. After the button, he started to open them and the rush of cold air sent a pang down John's spine.

It brought him back to reality. The sight of Sherlock, on his knees, opening his trousers, to a very erect cock, and getting ready to do god knows what with it. John moaned again. Sherlock was proving to be a tease as he touched John now over his pants. His two fingers stroked up and down, his thumb lingering at the tip. He couldn't stop himself as his hips bucked forward and tried to press more of Sherlock's fingers on him.

Sherlock removed his hand and John whimpered. It was quickly snuffed, as Sherlock's mouth touch the bottom side of his cock. Although it was still through his pants, it was warm and wet.

Sherlock's arm cupped his butt and made a lifting motion. John stood up a bit from the bed and Sherlock ripped his trousers and pants down.

John was surprised by the veracity of it, but those thoughts were quickly erased as Sherlock's mouth took his cock in his mouth. Just as their first kiss had been, Sherlock's mouth was urgent and fast. He quickly removed his mouth and ran his tongue up the side of him.

"John."

John shivered as his name was breathed against him. Sherlock licked around the tip of him and Sherlock's tongue danced around his slit. John gave another involuntary thrust. He could hear himself panting and feel the beginnings of sweat glistening on his skin.

John managed to find his voice, despite the fog that was his brain. "I...I want to..."

Sherlock placed a kiss on his thigh and then a bite. Sherlock's eyes looked up at his and John felt his lower half begin to burn. If possible, he got harder. "I want to taste you too."

Sherlock made a few languid bobbing motions on John's cock before he stood up. He went to unbutton his trousers, but John stopped him. He pulled Sherlock in between his thighs. He hurriedly unbuttoned them and without a second thought pulled down both his trousers and pants in one fluid motion.

Sherlock looked magnificent in the soft light. John was happy to see that he hadn't been the only one effected by their activities. There was a bit of pre-cum on Sherlock and John reached his mouth up to lick it off. It was salty and John found that he wanted more.

He laid a hand on the side, around Sherlock's cock and gave it a few experimental pumps. Sherlock's hand gripped his right shoulder and the other went to anchor in his hair.

John rubbed his finger on Sherlock's tip and was rewarded with a shaking sigh from Sherlock. He found he could no longer control himself and he sent a lick up the side of Sherlock's cock. John did it again to the other side; for good measure he ran up sideways across the front.

He held one of Sherlock's ass cheeks and pulled him closer. He trailed his tongue up Sherlock once again but this time he actually took Sherlock's cock in his mouth. Sherlock gripped onto John's hair so hard he gasped.

"John." Sherlock paused as he tried to sort his thoughts. "John. Down. Bed."

John removed his mouth from around Sherlock's cock and he laid out on the bed. Sherlock went to bend down to continue what he had been doing earlier to John but the other man didn't want to stop what he had been doing either.

With silent understanding, Sherlock shifted his body so that he and John could both give and receive oral pleasure. When both of their mouths came around each other at the same time it was almost more than John could bear. His hips moved to angle himself at the best possible position. John had wanted to take it nice and slow but he found that all he wanted was for Sherlock to come as quickly and as violently as he could make him.

Sherlock squeezed John's hip and he slowed his pace down. John continued his study of Sherlock's lower region. He gave one of Sherlock's balls an experimental tug and he was rewarded with Sherlock's cock jumping in his mouth.

Both men laid on their sides on the bed. John could feel the sheets getting twisted up around them and it only served to turn him on more. After he was done with Sherlock there would be no mistaking what had happened there.

Sherlock had peaked on the edge for awhile and when John gave the side of his erection a nibble, he knew he was almost undone. He took his mouth away to pant. "I'm close." John could tell even without Sherlock telling him; he could feel how incredibly hard he was becoming and the way his muscles contracted.

His pace picked up and in the next second Sherlock exploded in John's mouth. John continued to suck and as soon as he tasted the tang come out of Sherlock and into his mouth, he came as well. John moved his hips harder than was necessary and pushed himself down Sherlock's throat.

Once John had given Sherlock's cock one last lick he removed his mouth and the moan he had been holding in escaped. Sherlock did the same and flicked his tongue once last time across the tip of John. He flinched and Sherlock laughed in self satisfaction.

Sherlock had been at the foot of the bed and so he moved his way up to were John was. He could finally see the sweat plastering his fringe to his forehead. Sherlock kissed his collarbone and relished the saltiness of it.

John blushed. "I didn't mean to, I mean...I tried to warn you." John made every effort to not met Sherlock in the eye.

Sherlock scoffed. "John, did it bother you? That I did?"

John whipped his head around. "Oh, god, no!" His face turned even redder. "I...I-that's what I wanted."

"Good, because that's exactly what I wanted too." Sherlock could feel John's skin against him like a furnace. "You don't have to be on guard around me, John." Sherlock snuggled against him.

Sherlock planted a kiss on the skin near his armpit and chest. John gave a contented sigh. Taking this as a signal, Sherlock began to gently suck on the area. John made a grunting noise. Seeing as he wasn't being stopped, Sherlock raised himself on his elbow and made his way over to John's nipple.

When his teeth brushed along the top of it, John sucked in a breath. His hand crept up Sherlock's back and he pressed him closer with his fingers. John's nipple had become instantly hard and Sherlock twirled it around his tongue. He flicked it back and forth and John gave a jolt.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? We just..."

Sherlock moved his hand down and was rewarded with the feeling of a semi-hard John greeting his hand. "I don't see you complaining."

John moved into his touch and Sherlock took the length of him in his hand. Sherlock's mouth continued its motions on and around John's nipple. Sherlock heard John moan but it sounded slightly muffled.

"I want to hear you."

John released his lower lip from his teeth and allowed the sound that had been struggling out of his mouth to escape. He hadn't minded it so much before but now he sounded so needy, so wanton it was embarrassing. But incredibly satisfying.

Sherlock's hand sped up and John moved his hips in rhythm to it. John distantly wondered if he should be doing the same, but Sherlock breathed across his chest and all thoughts of equality were lost.

Sherlock traced a lazy path to the other nipple, and twitched the other one he had left with his hand. He flicked the head of John's erection with his thumb and was rewarded with the feeling of moisture. John moaned in time with their movements, which became slippery as Sherlock's had glossed more of John's pre-cum around it.

John's breathing began to hitch and Sherlock knew he was close. At the last moment, he turned John's cock to face him and bent down to take it in his mouth. As his lips curled around it, John gave a cry and orgasmed. John twitched and rode it out longer than he had the last one.

Satisfied that he had gotten every delicious drop, Sherlock worked his way back up to John. John's eyes were translucent and his cheeks a bright pink; Sherlock was tempted to take him a third time.

He curled up to John and groped blindly to pull up the sheet around them. The cool material felt soothing against his skin. Sherlock closed his eyes and for once in his life knew that sleep was going to envelope him quickly.

John had also closed his eyes, still trying to process all that had happened. One thought rang in his mind over all of the others. "I do love you. It's terrifying, the strength and swiftness of it." John shivered. "I just wanted you to hear it-from me."

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's waist and squeezed. "I love you too."

As John drifted off to sleep he faintly heard Sherlock mumble, "and I'm so sorry."

 


	11. Arch 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: Twolovesonestone

John blinked. He and Sherlock were still laying in bed and John couldn't be happier. He sighed with contentment.  _It's hard to believe anything wrong could happen._ John lifted his fingers up to his face, inspecting each one.  _What's this power Sherlock was talking about? I don't feel any different._ A spot of green flashed along his fingernail. He had been seeing a lot of that color lately.

"It's what you were told it would look like." Sherlock stretched against him.

"Can you see it too?"

"Only dully. Not anywhere to the clarity you can." Sherlock reached his hand up to lace it with John's. "What color is it for you? I see a blue, like your eyes." Sherlock squeezed his hand. "I imagine, because when I think of the aether living in you, I can see it in your eyes, your soul."

John stared at the ceiling. "I see a green, that's what I was told it looked like by my mother." It had been a long while since John Watson had thought of his mom, he smiled sadly. "She said aether was what was good in the world; like how everything looked in spring time, fresh and new."

Sherlock shifted and threw draped his leg over John. "I really don't know what kind of power it will afford you. Regular aether flows inside everyone and everything, but aether that seeks one out and had has been forced out of other forms to be trapped is completely new to me."

"Could it kill me?"

Sherlock thought before he spoke. "I don't have enough information, but my personal opinion, would be no. It has no reason to kill you, even though it was forcibly obtained. In all honesty, I can't even fathom what will happen."

John shivered. "That's not a comforting thought. If you don't know, than we're in trouble."

Sherlock furrowed his brows thoughtfully. "I need to run some experiments, see what might effect it, or bring it to the surface."

"I can think of a few experiments I would like to try." John's lips sought out Sherlock.

It was a deep kiss from the start. John was becoming more comfortable with the situation. He had never really been one to kiss the same gender, but he had never been against it either. John had once made the mistake of keeping his emotions bottled up and his friend had died in battle before he had the chance to tell him how he felt. It was a bitter memory, but it gave John courage now.

Sherlock took his hand from John's and stretched it out towards his back to pull him closer. John's skin felt smooth and Sherlock pondered on the force that resided in him. It would make horrible sense that when Sherlock finally met someone he could feel whole with, they would be so extraordinary. No matter what John said or thought, Sherlock knew, with every fiber of his being, that John Watson was a great man, capable of anything.

They were still naked and John's erection rubbed against Sherlock's. John moaned into his mouth and Sherlock swallowed it up. He wanted to consume every part of John, whether it was physically or mentally. Everyone needed to know who he was spoken for.

Sherlock bite at John's lower lip until he could feel it swell. John tried to move away, but he was caught in the taller man's grip. "People are going to talk if you bruise my lip."

"Let them talk. I'll mark you like you asked, no one will second guess who you belong too."

John stopped trying to escape his arms and allowed Sherlock to do whatever he wanted. Sherlock gnawed at sensitive skin were his lip met his chin. John could feel blood pooling there, along with his crouch. He pressed his cock against Sherlock's again and slighted moved his hips in tune to Sherlock's mouth.

"Sherlock..."

He didn't think he would ever tire of hearing his name on another person's lips in such an intimate way. Sherlock was no virgin, but he had never had a connection with his sexual partners, had never wanted to hear his name play on their lips in gasping breathes.

John reached down and his hand traced along the lower dip of Sherlock's back. His fingers traced lower, hesitantly as he moved down to Sherlock's ass. It was lean and strong, just like the rest of him. John wanted to move down lower, but his arms weren't long enough. He pushed Sherlock slightly and although the connection between them was lost momentarily, the feel of Sherlock's cock on his lower stomach was just as welcome as where it had been before.

Sherlock moved down from his lips and down to his neck. He attacked it with such hunger, Sherlock left wet kisses all over his shoulder and chest, moving his way all around the areas his mouth could reach.

John blushed with the idea that fluttered over his consciousness. He moved his hand up from his Sherlock's lower half and brought it up to where Sherlock's mouth was. John placed his hand in between Sherlock's mouth and his skin. Sherlock engulfed John's two fingers with his mouth and began to suck. John was mesmerized by the sight.

John moaned and gave a few hard thrusts with his legs. He refused to be distracted and after his fingers were sufficiently covered in Sherlock's saliva he brought his hand back down to Sherlock's bottom half.

He tentatively moved a finger around Sherlock's tight entrance. Whatever Sherlock had been expecting, this wasn't it. He grunted and bite down hard on the underside of John's arm, near his armpit. John slowly worked one finger around the outside and ever so lightly put the tip of one finger in. Sherlock hissed. "Oh!"

Sherlock's hand moved down to John's cock and rubbed an open palm over it. John moved his finger in deeper. Sherlock gripped on to John and gave a light cry. John's finger was agonizingly slow as it moved up and down. He added another one and John felt Sherlock's cock twinge against him.

His fingers began to move around and it didn't take long for John's fingers to brush up along his prostate. Sherlock gave a jolt and pulled at John's cock harshly.

John used his fingers to press up it again and the noise that came from Sherlock's mouth didn't sound human. "Do you like that?" His question came out in a gasp, and John already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear Sherlock say it.

"God, John." It was a strangled cry. " _Fuck_."

Hearing words that would normally never cross the mouth of such a prim man only served for John to press one finger pad down hard and move in a rotating motion.

"John, I'm so close."

Sherlock's hand momentarily stopped their movements on John's cock, too distracted to pay attention to the other man. John growled. "If you stop, I will too." Sherlock quickly rubbed his thumb on the lower side of John's cock, taking up a faster pace than before.

Suddenly John was right at the pinnacle too. His fingers took on a frantic speed and Sherlock came in a violent spasm. Sherlock's hand never stopped, even as he shook with pleasure. John came the next moment, exploding all over Sherlock's hand. He had cupped his hand around the tip of him, but come still seeped through his fingers.

Sherlock brought his fingers up to his mouth and John watched as Sherlock licked them clean. John was dizzy with the whole high, and giggled. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow. "This is so insane."

"I fail to grasp your meaning."

John silently racked with giggles. "I mean, we're grown men! In my wildest dreams I didn't think I had this type of stamina."

Sherlock's eyes began to glow.

"I suppose I bring the best out of you."

John's hand touched Sherlock's belly and he traced some of Sherlock's come in his lower curls. John gave an evil smirk. "And I you.

* * *

John would have loved spending all their time in bed, but sheets need to be changed and no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, John's stomach was growling. "I'm going to wash up." Sherlock gave him an odd look.

John's eyes smiled. "I suppose 'we' can wash up." Sherlock followed dutifully behind. As he turned on the tap, Sherlock went about laying his clothes out. John was shocked when he came out to see his clothes also spread out on his bed as well. "You like that shirt, don't you?" It was cream in color; it was one of John's favorites too.

"I don't like white on you." Sherlock walked past him and into the bathroom, John followed close behind. The bathwater feel cool and refreshing against John's sweat stained skin. He didn't like the fact that it was wiping away the smell of sex from them, but a Sherlock that smelled of his soap was also a tantalizing thought.

He used a washcloth to massage Sherlock's arms and back. Sherlock moved into his touch like a cat; arching his back and moving his head in search of John's hand. John swore he could hear him purr, it calmed John. Such an intimate gesture, allowing one's self to be washed by another person, and John took full advantage of it. Sherlock kissed him, tasting not only John but the faint smell of soap played along his tongue. He moved the cloth across John's chest and paid close attention to his shoulder blades.

They stood up and washed each other off with the small shower head. Reluctantly, John toweled off and went to the water basin to shave. Sherlock watched him as he rubbed the water out of his hair with a towel.

John was struck with how domestic the whole ritual felt. Morning sex, shower, shave and breakfast. John looked at the happy reflection staring back at him and hoped that the start of every morning could be so sweet.

* * *

His head was swimming. John felt faint but somehow managed to right himself. He opened his eyes and the blare of "Welcome aboard the Nautilus. We hope your stay aboard..." John shook his head and opened his eyes. The late evening sun burned his eyes and he leaned against his cane.

It took John's head a moment to stop pounding, he could feel his heart beating in his chest a mile a minute. John let out a strangled breathe and quickly sucked in another one.  _What am I doing here? What was I doing?_ His thoughts flooded in.  _I was shot. I visited Harry. I'm on my way back to London._ John took in the huge dirigible before him and his mind calmed.  _Of course, how could I have forgotten something like that?_

The line moved along and John found himself squinting against the change in light as he entered the Nautilus. He collected his key from the reception desk, and made his way to his room 242D. He opened the door and felt a sudden rush of loss; something felt out of place. He quickly dismissed the thought and moved over to the wing chair.

John remembered the novelette he had purchased, but he didn't feel like reading. Instead he got up from the chair and left the cabin. He stopped to listen to the automatons play a well-known piece of classical music. His ears pricked up at hearing the violin and John smiled at the sound of it. John wrinkled up his nose and walked past the band.

He felt the urge for a cigarette and made his way out to the terrace. It was enclosed in glass but smoking was still allowed. John took a long drag and exhaled the smoke. It burned in his lungs, but he found that suddenly he craved the feeling; like nothing felt real and he needed the pain to confirm that he was still awake.

His thoughts were broken into when he felt the presence of another person standing next to him. His eyes darted to the side and he was rewarded with a view of a gorgeous woman. Her features were dark and her lips were a ruby red. One of her eyebrows shifted up and she smiled. John's heart skipped a beat.

"Hello Doctor."


	12. Arch 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: twolovesonestone 
> 
> The song Sherlock is playing is 'sad violin (make you emotionally cry)' posted by kk700h on YouTube. (No lie, that is the title)

John closed his mouth, he was gaping like a fool. "How did you know I was a doctor?"

The woman's eyes grew darker and she smiled exposing two rows of perfect white teeth. "It's quite simple, really." She sited her deductions with a wave of a hand and a monologue that had John's mouth agape again.

"That's brilliant!" As the words danced on his tongue he had an odd feeling of Déjà vu.

She gave him another sweet smile and John felt his insides melting. "My name is Irene Adler, and although I was able to deduce much about you, I must admit I am still at a loss for your name."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Adler. I am John Watson." He raised his hand and she gave it a light shake. The cool white leather glove that enveloped her hand touched his skin, and it sent a jolt through him.

"I was just about to eat dinner but I wanted to see the sunset first. Beautiful, isn't it?" John nodded agreeably.

They gazed outside for a few minutes and as John extinguished his cigarette, she asked, "I don't suppose you would like to join me for dinner?"

John hoped his 'yes' didn't sound too enthusiastic. As they made their way back into the ship John held the door open for her. Just before he closed it, John noticed a man coming in from the deck, so he continued to hold the door for him.

The man didn't look up nor thank him, but the sight of the man and his proximity sent his nerves on edge. John knew he was still holding the door open, but his body and brain had stopped communicating.

"Dr. Watson?"

John shook his head out of its fog, at the sound of Ms. Adler's voice. He let the door fall closed and dismissed all thoughts of the man with the black curls.

* * *

He enjoyed his dinner with Ms. Adler but something kept trying to claw into his mind, a thought that just wafted in the shadows out of reach. John was surprised when Ms. Adler ordered dinner too, for some odd reason he thought she was just going to order tea.

John tried to push all unpleasant thoughts from his mind to just enjoy the good food and the good company. Ms. Irene Adler was a stunning example of femininity and John still couldn't believe that she had chosen  _him_ to talk too.

Dinner was spent in pleasant conversation and John sipped on his wine. He knew that it was the wine making him smile like a fool but he kept drinking anyway. The dining room was filled with the white noise of other tables. John paid them little attention, but whenever he tried to focus on another conversation all he could hear was [static], like there really was no else there.

John placed his sorbet spoon down and finished the last of his champagne. Every cell in his body sang with a delicious high. It had been so long since he had been this intoxicated. It was a bit of a blur as he wished Ms. Adler a good night and he wobbled his way to his cabin.

He was half way to 242D when he heard a sound coming from the cabin on his right. Someone was playing the violin and the melody was sweet and mournful. John felt his shoulders tighten and his breathing became shallow. The music flowed around John and into him; touching, almost communicating with him. The violin stopped and John was broken from his trance, he continued the trek to his cabin leaning heavily on his cane for support.

* * *

John was drinking his coffee when he spotted Ms. Adler. She gave him an amiable nod and when back to talking to the gentleman she was seated with. John felt a pang of jealousy and started to contrive reasons for going over and interrupting their conversation.

However, Ms. Adler parted from the man and made her way over to him. She sat down without a word and waved down a waiter. She ordered coffee and John requested a refill. They talked about family and friends; it was bland conversation but John found it very much to his liking.

That was half the reason he had chosen to fly by way of the Nautilus. He was looking for a wife and Ms. Adler fit the bill perfectly. She carried not only a finely toned mind but body as well. Their conversations were not always stimulating, but at least John never felt as if Ms. Adler was going to resort to gossip or useless tattle.

"The Captain would like it very much if you could accompany me to dinner tonight for the welcoming banquet." Ms. Adler gave him an award winning smile over the rim of her coffee cup and he knew he was lost.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure."

They finished their breakfast and promised to meet before the dinner. When Ms. Adler departed she placed a lingering hand on John's bad shoulder. It seared his skin and John couldn't figure out if he liked the sensation or not. However, after she removed her hand, her lips pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and lust flooded his system. She walked away and John found himself staring brazenly at her rounded ass. John couldn't wait to see what the night had in store for him.

He passed by 221B and heard the now familiar violin playing. It had been emitting a soft song when he had left for breakfast, and it still carried on with its lamentations. John closed his eyes and time stopped. He was brought out of his reverie when the music ceased and the door he was standing in front of opened.

John was faced with the man he had seen the day before. Although he hadn't seen his face, John found that he thought the man's eyes looked sunken and that he had less color than usual.

"Are you enjoying my violin, Doctor?"

John laughed. "How is it that everyone on this bloody ship can guess I am a doctor?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "I never guess."

The words echoed in John's head and he felt ill. He gripped his cane tightly, his knuckles tight and gaunt. The man stared at him in questioning silence. "I do not suppose you have a moment to spare?"

John tried to move the gears in his head again. "What?"

"I am working on a piece and I need feedback from a person who appreciates the arts. I have a feeling you may be that man."

The taller man stretched out his hand and John took it in a handshake, the next moment he was being pulled into the cabin.

* * *

John found that the piece the mysterious musician was composing was too bittersweet and made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. Mr. Holmes was in a pair of trousers and a shirt with a robe over it. The silk clung to the man's slender body and every time John looked at him the urge to run his hands over the robe and take it off the man became stronger and stronger.

"What do you think?" Mr. Holmes laid down his violin in its case. His eyes shone with expectancy; wanting to hear his thoughts. John couldn't figure out why his opinion mattered so much to a man he hardly knew anything about.

"It was..." John stopped to clear his throat which had become rough. "beautiful. It really wasn't a happy song though." John licked his lips. "What's it called?"

"It doesn't have a title yet. I don't title my works until they are perfected."

John grunted. "I thought as much." He paused- _why did this feel so familiar?_  Being snarky and upfront with a man he had just met was not the usual behavior of John Watson.

He felt a weight building in his chest and the cabin began to suffocate him. Mr. Holmes must have noticed the change, because he was bending over him the next moment. "Dr. Watson, are you all right?"

John waved his hand in front of his face. "I'm fine. Just a case of light headedness. I do not believe that air travel is agreeing with me."

"Are you quite sure that is the reason?" Mr. Holmes voice had gotten dangerously low and there was a grainy quality to it.

John looked up, and the eyes that met his were gazing down at him with such deep emotion, he gulped. The intense way he was being eyeballed didn't make John feel uncomfortable instead it made him want to kiss the man...which  _did_ make him feel uncomfortable. His eyes were captured by Mr. Holmes' and John tried to read what was there in the deepness of them but John couldn't decipher any of it.

He shook his head and stood up so swiftly that he almost knocked Mr. Holmes off his feet. John cleared his throat, which had become itchy again. "I do apologize, but I have an appointment that I cannot be late for."

John turned away after tipping his hat and made an effort to erase the sad smile Mr. Holmes had given him as he shut the door.

* * *

He primed himself and patted down his hair. He knew his suit was almost completely out of fashion but he was trying to not let it grate at him. If Ms. Adler had been against men that weren't 'posh' than she certainly would never have talked to him.

An image flashed in his mind of a tailored suit, perfect form fitting and gorgeous.  _That's the type of man she would usually go for._ He squinted his eyes and looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.  _Who had that been? It wasn't just any man I was thinking about but a specific one. Someone with greenish, yellow eyes and pale skin._ John was not able to find the image he was conjuring up, as a knock on the door broke him out of his concentration.

"Coming!"

John knew it would be Ms. Adler at the door but he was surprised to see her anyway. It was very rare for a woman to come calling on a man in this way. She looked breathtaking. Her dress was elegant, and it whispered of sexuality; whispers of promises on soft sheets, pleasures that would rock him to the point of destruction.

"You look amazing." John tried to search for a better word but the other ones he thought of could not be used to describe a lady.

She smiled. John noticed that nothing in her eyes alighted to that smile; it was only her mouth. He took her hand and kissed the top of it, his lips lingering longer than necessary.

"Shall we be on our way?"

* * *

Everything about the party was polite and proper and John was almost bored to tears. He enjoyed the soft graze of Ms. Adler's leg that would occasionally brush up against his, but he found that his eyes kept wondering to the only empty seat at the table. It filled him with a sadness that almost physically hurt him.

Ms. Adler must have noticed his disinterest, because she tried to include him in conversation. He laughed a few times to please her and then found that his mirth was becoming more genuine. The night finished better than it had started off and he walked her back to her cabin.

"I really enjoy your company Dr. Watson. May I call you John?"

John felt a tingle as she spoke his first name; he rather liked it. "Only if I am allowed to call you Irene."

She closed the gap between them. He could feel her breath come out and it warmed his neck. He leaned in and captured her lips in a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review!


	13. Arch 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: twolovesonestone

John Watson paused, it was an unconscious movement. He waited in front of the door of 221B, because something was out of place.  _Where's the violin?_ His mind tried to reason with him that Mr. Holmes had just gone out of his cabin, but Mr. Holmes had  _never_ been out of his cabin. John shook his head. Of course Mr. Holmes had been out of his room! He had first seen him on the terrace.

He continued waiting. Every muscle strained with the effort to hear that sweet sad violin hum and reverberate in him. When none came, John finally took the few hesitant steps to the door, but something pulled him back. He stared at the mahogany willing it to open. Finally, he gave in to the temptation and knocked.

"Come in."

John hesitantly opened the door and peered in. Mr. Holmes was draped over the wing chair. He had the violin laying over his stomach and was rosining the bow. He said nothing as John walked in and shut the door, closing it felt very final; like he had made a decision that would change everything.

Oddly, Mr. Holmes' cabin had another chair. So John took off his dinner jacket, and hat. He propped his cane on the wall and sunk into the chair with a sigh. Neither man spoke but it was a very warm silence, Mr. Holmes' was not talking because he resented the intrusion, it was more like he was just basking in the presence of John.

John made the mistake of focusing all his attention on Mr. Holmes hands. They were just like the body of the man; long, thin elegant. He watched as Mr. Holmes' hand worked up and down, removing every particle of dust from the string of his bow.

John's thoughts moved from Mr. Holmes' hand and instead to the motion of it. There was a languid up and down movement to it.  _What amazing care he treats the possessions he treasures._ John closed his eyes and his arms tingled. The thought struck him that he would like to trade places with the string, being caressed, every fiber of its being, touched by that hand, even if it was through a cloth. John hoped that his shudder wasn't visible to Mr. Holmes.

"Why did you come here tonight doctor?"

John whipped his gaze up to look at Mr. Holmes. His eyes were dark and there was a hunger lurking in them. John realized that that same look was reflected in his own features. John licked his lips. It had been an innocent action, but it sent a shiver to his mouth. His tongue felt so dry. A thousand answers flashed through his head, but John rejected every one of them.

"I don't know."

John knew it was a weak answer. He didn't care. Too much of his blood was being redirected from his brain to his crotch. John blushed and he was happy, for yet another reason, that the room was only bathed in the light of one lamp.

Mr. Holmes applied the bow to his violin and played the same song he had played the night before. It was still the same mournful tune, but now John felt a moisture cover his eyes. It wasn't that he felt like crying, more that the song stuck a deeper chord within him that it hadn't before.

Mr. Holmes finished and moved to place the instrument in its case. "What do you think of the song now, Dr. Watson?"

John didn't answer for the fear of his emotion being laid bare in the tone of his voice. He instinctively knew Mr. Holmes' would give him all the time he needed to think, so John didn't feel pressured to answer.

John weighted his answer very carefully. Was it worth it? Risking everything, when he knew so little? His mind flitted to Irene and what she would think, but she never needed to know.

Nothing would come of this encounter with Sherlock Holmes, so John braced his nerves and said, "It physically hurts me. A part of me feels like its breaking and I don't even know which one it is. Not my heart, not my will or mind, but something infinitely more important."

He sensed the presence of Mr. Holmes looming over him. John felt himself being dissected, like his soul was out, naked, for Mr. Holmes to do with as he wished. John hoped he would be better at understanding it than he was.

A hand landed over John's and nudged him up. Standing in front of Sherlock was enthralling and even not touching, every nerve in John's body hummed with it. Mr. Holmes' hand didn't leave his and John felt him stroke the top of it with his thumb.

John focused on breathing.  _one. two. one. two._ Sherlock moved his head and leaned it against the side of John's. It was an intimate action and John felt the other man's curls wisp across his temple.

John knew this should have been terrifying him. He should have pushed him away and stormed out of the cabin. Except all John wanted to do was pull him close and inhale the scent he was just beginning to drown in.

Sherlock moved his other hand up to John's neck. He gently traced his fingers upward. His thumb came up to trace along John's jaw line and paused under his mouth. It stroked the sensitive skin between his chin and lip. The flame that had begun to grow in John's lower belly began to burn. This was nothing like the reaction he had had when he and Irene kissed. Her kisses were sweet, but there was a warmth, a passion that was lacking in them. Sherlock was even kissing him and he was able to illicit such a reaction; John held back a pleasurable sigh.

Sherlock barely brushed the pad of his thumb over John's lip. He slowly moved back and forth; John wanted to bring his tongue out and touch it. He settled for moving the hand that wasn't interlocked with Sherlock's, to the hip of the slender man.

John squeezed his fingers and was rewarded with the smooth feeling of silk and the sharp corner of a hip bone. Sherlock's movements stopped and John felt his face move from the side to being right in front of his. He was tantalizingly close and there were only a few inches that needed to be bridged for them to be kissing.

Sherlock stood stock still and John wondered if he was even breathing. With everything that made up John Watson, he wanted to touch the soft lips of this man with his own, but something was holding him back. An invisible force that kept his head from cocking up.

No words were exchanged as John removed his arm from Mr. Holmes' hip and withdrew his fingers. He reached for his jacket and hat. He held the cane in his hand and John felt for a moment that maybe he could do it...

John scrunched his eyes. He never looked up as he walked to the door and for a second night in a row, left Mr. Holmes standing lost in his room, an unspeakable wound being ripped open and it all clearly showing on his face.

* * *

As John lay in his bed naked, his pajama bottoms hugging his knees, two images struggled for dominance in his mind.

There was Irene, with her blood red lips and curvy fleshy thighs, beckoning to him, to become lost in her. It had been a warm fantasy at first and had brought his arousal to the forefront of his mind. John had held on to that image and in his mind stroked her breasts and belly, making her gasp under his touch.

Then there was the body that had invaded his mind. Where Irene had been a welcoming thought, this one had intruded and demanded to make itself known. It wasn't that Irene morphed into Sherlock, more he closed his eyes and the body before John had been swapped.

He did what he could not do earlier, and brought his lips up to Sherlock. The tall man held him close; they were both naked and John could feel that Sherlock desired him. John stroked his hands up and down Sherlock's chest and sides. He fanned his hands out and allowed his palms to skitter over Sherlock's nipples. The other man let out a small gasp and John raked his fingernails down, stopping only at the curls that lead down to Sherlock's erection.

The bottom of John's hand ran across the top of Sherlock's cock and he felt it dance and stiffen under his touch. He made a funnel out of his hand and brought it down on Sherlock.

The John in his bed, stroking himself at these thoughts, picked up the pace. John tried to envision that it was Sherlock's cock he was holding and not his own. His hand came up to tweak at his nipple, just as the John in his head, did the same to Sherlock.

Sherlock made an ungodly noise and John began to pick up the pace. He bit down on his chest and rubbed his thumb against Sherlock's nipple so hard that it began to turn red.

He let out a moan and John went back to play on the skin of Sherlock only to discover it had been replaced with Irene. She was swollen with stiff touches and where he had been biting Sherlock her skin glistened with saliva.

John was approaching his peak and little cared who it was he touched. He buried one, two fingers into Irene and she shook. John faintly realized he missed the smell of Sherlock. Irene stunk of perfume and mink, John crinkled his nose. He continued to finger her, but his mind trailed away.

When his eyes focused again, Sherlock was before him. Somehow they were laying down and John was over him. John moved his head down to Sherlock's cock and took him in his hand. While he pumped, his tongue took quick and taunting licks.

John felt the sheets under him get hot and sticky. These images and sensations were giving John the most ridiculous self-pleasure he had ever had. His body rocked into his hand and he bit at his lip to stifle a groan.

Sherlock was so close and John closed his mouth lightly around his tip as the orgasm rocked Sherlock. He screamed out "John!" with all abandonment. At the sound of it, John gave his cock one final tug and he came.

As he cleaned up and wrapped his pajamas back around his waist, John kept replaying the sound of Sherlock's cry over and over again. He had been such a coward to walk away.

John sighed. He was reminded of the evening he had planned out with Irene. They were to go to the ball. Although thoughts of her did not send John in a wild frenzy, they were calming and less confusing than thinking about Sherlock. John curled up to Irene in the after glow of sex.

The pillow, that he was really clinging to, was clammy against his skin.

 


	14. Arch 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beta: twolovesonestone

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Thanks for all the love! I'm happy to see that everyone is confused. (evil laugh)

Beta: twolovesonestone

John spent the day in his cabin. He only ventured out for a smoke around noon and as he passed 221B he never paused, didn't even allow his head to flinch in the direction of that door.

Around five he was drying out his hair and pointing his mustache. He found it more relaxing than he should, maybe it was the soldier in him; demanding routine. The suit he had ironed before was laying over the bed and John walked his way over and stared at it.

It was just as old as the other suit, but John thought this one better fit his frame. It was black, just like every other tuxedo but it was the one he had worn to his sister's wedding. True, the marriage had ended on bad terms, but John tried to bask in the warm emotions that had happened during the ceremony.

At the time, John had desperately wanted it to be him standing at the alter. Not because he wanted to marry Clara, but he had wanted a love, someone to give his all too. He smiled at the thought of Irene.  _I could ask her tonight. Make my intentions known._ John knew his pace might be considered 'reckless', but he needed to confirm that there was no ambiguity about his intensions.

More for himself than hers.

He scanned the ballroom for what seemed the hundredth time. John had been talking to Irene and her friends throughout the night. Although, whenever he tried to remember their conversations later he couldn't, as if the only real people on the Nautilus were him and Irene. Whenever John struggled to focus his thoughts on that his head hurt, so he took another sip of wine and concentrated on the feel of Irene's arm on his.

His head kept turning from side to side-searching for something...or someone. As he and Irene twirled around the room in a waltz, he kept seeking out the mysterious thing he needed.

"Darling, you seem distracted."

John whipped his head around, he didn't realize he had been spacing out at the wall. He opened his mouth to tell her the truth, he didn't want to lie to her; something held him back. He knew his mouth was hanging open.

"I do?" He leaned down to kiss her, it was better than continuing with what was going to say.  _Maybe because I was planning on asking you to marry me._ John had felt so sure in his cabin, now being faced with the full force of what that statement meant, he hesitated.

Her kiss was sweet and John easily opened Irene's mouth to allow his tongue access. There was an emptiness of feeling. Why had he not realized before that the action between him and her was just lips on lips? It wasn't passion, there was definitely lust and his fingers ached to touch her, but his being wasn't affected. The inner self that made up more than just his body didn't desire her.

He knew what it desired.

Instead of stopping the kiss he deepened it. John was flooded with a fear that if Irene knew what was going on between him and Sherlock she would be angry; irate, and something terrible would happen.

* * *

 

He didn't hesitant, not tonight. John didn't even knock, he just opened the door to cabin 221B. Sherlock was staring out the small window, the moon was framing him in a soft glow. All the lights were off in the cabin. John strode up to Sherlock but paused a foot behind him.

He waited and Sherlock finally spoke. "I can't close this distance between us, only you, Dr. Watson, can do that."

"Don't call me that."

Sherlock never turned around, but John could see a shiver rock his shoulders. He refused to advance until he had it, something he ached to hear.

"John."

He closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle. His hands covered John's and frantically touched ever piece of skin they could. Sherlock turned around in John's grip and their eyes met.

To John's shock, Sherlock was more ghastly looking than before. His eyes had bags under them; dark and angry. Sherlock's mouth was strained, like he wanted to frown deeper but he was stopping himself.

John's thumb stroked against Sherlock's cheek bone. "God, are you all right?" John didn't try to mask his concern, he knew that Sherlock needed to hear it; starved for the emotion.

"No John. I can't do this for much longer, and I am terrified to death I won't be able to reach you in time."

John waited for Sherlock to cover his mouth with his, but Sherlock only brushed his hands on his back. John felt hurt and it shadowed over his face. Sherlock laughed, it sounded broken with no mirth.

"John, only you can do this."

Unbelievable, John still hesitated. He had never wanted anything more but a thought tugged at him drawing him away. Sherlock's face went from being broken to filled with anger. His lips thinned and his arms made fists with the material of John's jacket.

"Can't you see what's going on?!"

Sherlock looked strained that he had allowed his emotions to break. His hands released John, expecting him to walk away, leave like he had every night before.

John held on to him tighter. He locked eyes with Sherlock. He needed to convey this to Sherlock, yearned for him to understand. "I can't seem to understand anything right now, other than the fact that you are real." John brought his hands up to hold Sherlock's face. Sherlock closed his eyes and his breathing stilled, the anger draining out of him.

His lips brushed against Sherlocks, it was like hot irons. It hurt, almost to the point that he flinched away but John had known pain before and he refused to let it rule him. He pressed himself into Sherlock and his arms entangled him. John brought his lips away and then back again. The pain was no less great, but there was now a touch of release.

John had been searching for this release from Irene but she had never been able to provide it; no matter how many times they kissed. With barely a touch, Sherlock was able to give him what he craved. The unknown force in him begged for more, that with this man's touch, it could be strong again.

Sherlock stifled a groan as a John slipped his tongue into him. The burning in John's chest became heavier and he felt it radiating through his veins. It wasn't adrenaline, for the two forces were mixing, becoming one.

John opened his eyes and the moonlight had taken on a soft greenish glow. It gave Sherlock an impish look, John was convinced that the pale man was not of the human world. He was so fascinated by these thoughts, he didn't catch now Sherlock's eyes were widening in shock.

"John, god, you're..." The words were lost in Sherlock's throat.

John squinted his eyes. He moved his hand from behind Sherlock and brought it up to inspect it. His nails were emitting a green glow. It was gentle and outlined some of the veins in his palm. Instead of frightening him, it calmed him.  _This is what I was searching for, the part of me that had been sealed away._ He flexed his hand and watched as the light danced.

Sherlock stood transfixed. John dragged his nails over Sherlock's cheek, there was a glittering path of emerald left were they made contact. He leaned into the touch and it was all John needed to know that the light did not scare Sherlock.

John drew his head back in again and this time the pain had vanished. There was only hot sticky lips gripping for more and more of each other. John moved his hand to Sherlock's hair and pulled at the curls on the nape of his neck.

Sherlock removed John's jacket and it slipped silently to the floor. Their movements became more frantic and Sherlock began to unbutton John's shirt, it followed its fallen comrade.

John shivered as the cool air hit his skin. Sherlock's hand tracked the rough skin that covered the wound on John's shoulder. It was an intimate gesture and it caused John's chest to tighten. Sherlock removed his lips and ducked down to place a feather kiss on this bullet wound.

John could feel liquid covering his eyes. The tear cling to his eyelash and trembled as it was released from him. It traced a path down his skin, John gasped and his eyes unfocused.

His chest tightened up like a top that was ready to spin out of control. His vision blurred and Sherlock held him up. He mumbled soothing words in his ear and over his skin. John caught the tail end of "Let it take you. Everything is safe. I'm here John."

John choked and his eyes bulged. Sherlock was almost sobbing, "Let go."

John let gave his control over and his muscles buckled. His body shivered and he felt the beginnings of a seizure. The room spun around and John sank to his knees. John gave one more gasping breathe. Sherlock kissed the top of his head, it was hard and it hurt.

"I love you."

Then the world turned black.


	15. Arch 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: twolovesonestone

John's eyelids shot open. He tried to move his arms but they were tied down. All he could do was move his head from side to side. John was laying on a hard floor, he spotted a few candles. The muscles in his body began to wake up with a groan of protest. He tried to lick his lips and discovered there was a handkerchief stuffed in it.

He shut his eyes and concentrated on slowing his speeding heart.  _This is the beginning of a panic attack. Relax, relax. I am in control. Deep breathes. In. Out. In. Out._ John felt his pulse slowing and gained control over himself again.

John set about sorting his thoughts, except there was nothing to sort. None of it made any sense, not at all.  _Relax. Relax._ He couldn't feel the warm touch of Sherlock on his skin, even indicating to him he had woken up from a dream.

 _A dream? Yes, with me and Sherlock...and that woman. The woman, who had she been?_ A pressure began to build at his temples and head. John cleared his mind. He slowed his breath to hear if there was another person around, but there was only a deep silence.

 _How is anyone going to find me? Will I die down here, alone?_ John quickly pushed the thought away. Sherlock would find him. This gave him a peace and he let the calm take him.

When he opened his eyes again he wasn't alone.

He stood over John, eyeing him. The man's features broke out into a cruel smile when he saw that John had woken up. "Well, hello there sleeping beauty."

John stared at him; he was still bound and gagged. "I'm here to guard you until your boyfriend comes for you." He spit at the word 'boyfriend'. "He's a little late though, he is. I told the boss you wasn't worth it but..." The man shrugged his shoulders.

John ignored the man's words. He had come to the realization that the aether was becoming stronger, manifesting itself within him. Maybe, maybe if he could focus it, he won't need Sherlock to save the day.

He was just so weak. Every part of his body that didn't feel like jelly ached with a deep pain. His body felt violated and out of his control. Instead, John focused on what he would do after he was free- a hot meal, and then a hot bath would be in order. The man continued to blather on, but John shut it out.

Boredom was beginning to grind into John's guard and he decided to take it out on John. Kicking him occasionally, taking the butt end of his rifle and grinding it in his shoulder, stomach, anywhere that looked like it would hurt.

 _Sherlock were are you?_ He tried not to let his mind trick him into thinking Sherlock had abandoned him; he would never do that. John shut his eyes again to another stab of pain when a welcome voice flooded into his ears.

"Get your  _filthy_ hands off of him!" Sherlock appeared out of the shadows. He chopped the man on the curve of the neck. The man didn't collapse but he did drop his weapon. Sherlock jabbed his fist into the man's face and then placed another in his stomach.

Sherlock threw the man against the wall and he collapsed in a heap. Sherlock bent down and took out the gag and then began to undo the straps holding him. John coughed and he was sure he could taste copper in his mouth. He spit the blood out. John looked down as Sherlock undid the bonds on his legs.

There was writing on the ground surrounding him. It was chalk, white and it was...it was... _Alchemy._ John was awestruck. Had he been under a spell? No wonder his body had not felt his own, it filled him with disgust. John didn't know what any of the symbols meant individually, but as a whole...A shiver racked his body.

"John, we have to leave. Now." Sherlock helped drag John to his feet. John felt lightheaded. He dry heaved.

* * *

"John, just hold on." John forced his eyes to readjusted and he moved one hesitant foot in front of another.

John woke up to the feel of softness covering him. He sighed and stretched. It hurt so much but he needed it; to be reminded that the restraints were gone.

There was the soft song of Sherlock's violin flowing in the room. John smiled.

"I had no idea how much you liked my violin."

"Neither did I."

John heard something crash to the floor and suddenly there was a new weight straining the bed down. Sherlock placed kisses all over John's face and his hands barely traced along every piece of skin it could touch. Even with only lightest of touches John still flinched, but he grabbed Sherlock's hand before he could take it away.

Sherlock looked down at John with tears standing in his eyes. He bent down and kissed his lips. It felt so good and so soft, he cherished the taste of their saliva mixing. Sherlock was still solid and it filled him with courage. John would have never believed that he was doing the same for Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what the hell happened?"

Sherlock took a shuttering breath and wiped a tear away. He collected himself and the calm, reassuring facade was back in place.

"It was alchemy, John. You went out for a smoke, I went back to the cabin. They used chloroform and dragged you to an empty cabin. I knew where you were, but if I had tried to move you, it would have been irreversible. You needed to wake up, break the illusion."

Sherlock nodded his head before John could ask.

"Yes, it was all an illusion. He was using Irene Adler to try and control you. That was why no one else seemed real; there was only you and her. Ah, but what about me? I am sure you noticed I spent all my time in my cabin, it was the only place I could focus enough energy to try and reach you."

The dark circles under Sherlock's eyes had been real. John couldn't figure out which of them looked worse. Sherlock was so thin and his skin was taunt over his bones; sickly looking.

"I did see you on the deck, but that drained me of energy so badly that I never tried it again. She was strong John. The strongest I've ever seen, but she made one mistake. That woman was too certain of her ability to lure you away."

John remembered the morse code he had seen flashed on Sherlock, "I can do it."

"That was her. Everyone assumed that the aether was still too dormant in you to have any effect; I'm happy I was wrong." The right side of Sherlock's mouth lifted up in a smirk. "Although it wasn't only that. You are an incredible resilient man, John."

"What do you think will happen now?"

Sherlock lifted his eyes to un-focus them while staring at a distant wall. "Moriarty is smart enough to realize that he has to go about this another way. Although his main goal does allude me now, but who ever said madness needed a reason? Sometimes its just a game."

John frowned. "This is no game Sherlock. People have died."

Sherlock nodded in agreement, but John didn't think he really meant it. Even through all the pain this had been causing them, it seemed to be exciting Sherlock. John knew Sherlock didn't want anyone to be hurt, be he did enjoy the challenge; the battle of wits. John knew best how to deal with his troubling thoughts, to ignore them.

"You need to rest. I've already drawn a warm bath. I suppose you are hungry too? I'll order some food in." Sherlock helped him to the bathroom and after he had helped John strip and climb into the tub, Sherlock left.

John was thankful that Sherlock knew that he needed so time to himself. He dunked his head under the water and held his breath for as long as he could. John came up gasping for air. He touched his hands to his face, confirming every bit of him was still in place. He had a few days stubble on his face and John wondered how long he had been in that cabin.

Goosebumps broke out over his skin. He had been so vulnerable, Moriarty could have easily killed him, but he didn't. It didn't feel John with a comforting feeling, rather there was a deep dread building in his gut.  _What is that man capable of? A man who had the means to concentrate aether is a force to be reckoned with._

His thoughts drifted to Sherlock. What was he capable of? Could he be a killer too? Sherlock was not a man without sin and secrets, John would have had to been blind not to see that. John was not a saint either. He had killed, even if it had been on the battlefield...and in a library. There was blood on his hands that could never be washed off.

John gave a sharp laugh when he remembered the words Sherlock had used to describe him 'pure' or 'innocent'. John wasn't a hero or an angel; neither of them were. But John knew that he and Sherlock did what they could, they weren't the 'enemy' of society or of any law abiding people.

He continued to move his hands over his face to his chest and shoulders. They ached and John saw bruising all over them. It was an array of greens, purples, blacks, reds and blues. John categorized each of them by color. The action soothed him and he was able to face all the violence with a medical detachment.

John came across one bruise that was a green and yellow it was the lightest and there was an outline of teethmarks. It was on the soft under-skin of his arm, near his armpit. John remembered with fondness that it was were Sherlock had bitten him.

John let that memory take hold and he felt a buoyancy. He would be alright, they would be alright. The colors began to move and the bruise began to swirl. It was a gentle movement and barely noticeable, but it captured John's attention instantly.

There was a hum building in his chest. It radiated out through this body and it made John think of open green fields and the sunshine on his face.  _It's the aether. It's talking to me._ Talking wasn't the right word to describe it, but there was no word to really understand what it felt like.

_What do you want?_

His body relaxed and John understood the aether had no quarrel with him. It was trapped, but there was no hate; it wanted to protect him and John could feel it vibrate in every cell of his body. His aches melted away, despite the fact that the bruises remained.

 _Thank you. I suppose you're a part of me now._ There was no dread in this realization, just a calm acceptance.  _I want to use you, but only if you want to be. I don't think your a force to be controlled._ The bath water vibrated against him and it was all the answer he needed. Filled with relief, John laughed uncontrollably, until tears were streaming down his face, and mingling with the lukewarm bath water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! and thank you for all the kind words so far. This was my very first Johnlock fic, so I hold it very dear to my heart :D


	16. Arch 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out Asmayda on Wiki :D

"Bored...!"

John nearly threw his journal at Sherlock. It had been three days since Sherlock had saved him from the spell that had been binding him in an illusion. On the first day, after John had bathed and eaten, Sherlock had been a ball of manic energy, poking and prodding him (and not in the good way), searching for any remnants of the spells and generally violating him in any way he could think of. John drew the line when Sherlock requested multiple types of fluid samples.

John counted to ten before he answered. "Why don't we disembark at Asmayda It will be a change in scenery and I think that will do you good." Sherlock was paler than ever, and although he promised John that "I'm fine", the doctor couldn't quite believe him.

Asmayda was a crescent shaped floating island in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. the main purpose it served was to replenish supplies and provide a chance for the passengers to enjoy nature again. It was legendary in that it was the only floating island that had actual greenery. All other islands only had fake flowers or artificially fauna produced through magic or alchemy.

It had filled John with excitement to visit Asmayda and he was not going to miss it because Sherlock was acting like a spoiled child. John had been astounded at the change when it had first cover came his lover. Sherlock was normally so cool and stoic. Now, he was acting like a child who had had their favorite toy taken away or throwing a hissy fit because he felt the world was unfair.

At first, John had tried to reason with him, but after trying reason for half the day, John surrendered and decided to pick up his long neglected personal journal. He wasn't sure if another pair of eyes would ever see it (or if they even should) but John didn't want to forget the small but important details of what had happened to him and Sherlock.

Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and threw his head back. "Fine, but we're taking specimens and you're helping me."

John replied with a grunt.

* * *

 

John took a deep breathe in of the refreshing outside air. Sherlock was almost making hissing noises when John finally pulled him out of the Nautilus. They had waited until the first wave of passengers had departed, thus avoiding being shoved. John would have  _loved_ to have seen how Sherlock would have reacted to that.

The island truly lived up to every rumor John had ever heard of it. The air was clean and sharp; everything danced and sang of life. But something about it all unsettled John, it was too perfect.  _God, Sherlock is making me think too much._ John pushed away the negative thoughts and allowed himself to bask in the beauty that was Asmayda island.

They walked along a pebbled path and John heard the faint sound of water flowing down a stream. He smiled at the small flowers dancing in the faint breeze. They only passed one other person and John tipped his hat to him; in true Sherlock style he ignored the other man. Sherlock and John departed from the path and found a small wooded area that had mold, moss and mushrooms littering it.

Thankfully, there was enough to occupy Sherlock and his demeanor changed almost instantly. His face was now alight with the insatiable curiosity John had missed. John dutifully handed him containers as Sherlock collected samples and carried on a monologue. John smiled fondly at the strange man who had stolen his heart.

John heard someone approaching and turned to see a small servant boy. He had a tray with two glasses of red wine. The boy gave a light bow to John. "Sir, I bring refreshments."

John took the two glasses of wine from the tray and thanked the boy. He stood at attention and John realized the young servant planned on staying until both glasses had been drunk.

"I'll bring them back when we're done."

The boy looked unsure for a moment, but bowed and left them. John took one quick gulp before he placed both glasses down to keep aiding Sherlock.

John spaced out, his mind tracing over the leaves, rocks, and trees. His mind folded in on itself and John was happy to find the aether there. It was now like a small warmth he could put his consciousness around. Ever since he had connected to it in the bathtub, the aether didn't feel unreachable. If John let it, it hummed through his body and lit fire in his veins. John began to hum a light tune, ridiculously content.

John felt a warm hand on his cheek. The fingers traced down and a button on his shirt opened. John felt a hand enter his shirt and place itself over his heart. The hand was even warmer than his own skin and John felt the aether gather under it. Whenever Sherlock's skin touched his, it was like a magnet and the aether jostled to be near it.

"Don't tempt me John."

John opened his eyes and knew they were lidded heavy with drowsiness and lust.

"No reason to be jealous of it Sherlock." John smirked.

Sherlock's lips thinned. "I am not jealous."

John corked an eyebrow up.

Sherlock blushed and pursed his lips.

John felt a giggle escape from his lips. Sherlock's features softened and John quickly swallowed his laughter. Sherlock's gaze felt heavy on him and it made John's heartbeat speed up.

The sunlight did wonders to Sherlock's hair and skin. His hair glistened and truly reflected how silken it was; the highlights showed around the tips of his curls. Sherlock's skin looked porcelain and John didn't think it was right for any man to have an expanse of skin that breathtaking.

John knew that the sunlight did the opposite to him. Sherlock could see the few gray hairs peeking their way out in his hair. The light scars of years on the battlefield. John didn't even want to think of what his wrinkles must look like; he had always hated the way the skin under his eyes slightly sagged.

"Don't do that John."

"Do what?"

"Worry. Don't take away the carefree expression that only you can make look not forced." Sherlock bent down and placed a soft kiss on his lips.

John let out a sigh of contentment and snaked his hands up to grip each of Sherlock's hips. Sherlock removed his hand from John's shirt and placed it at the nape of his neck.

Sherlock opened his mouth and his tongue glided its way in. He traced the bottom row of John's teeth and John's fingers cut deeper into Sherlock's skin. Sherlock raked his nails down from John's hairline and down to the curve of his shirt.

John gentled directed Sherlock over to a bench that was snuggled between two oak trees. Sherlock tried to bring John down to the bench with him, but John bent down on his knees in-between Sherlock's long legs.

John traced his hands up and down Sherlock's legs. Sherlock let out a moan and entangled his fingers in John's dirty blonde hair. He tugged at their tips and it hurt, but it only turned on John more.

He brought both of his hands up and unbuttoned Sherlock's jacket. John pushed it open and glided fingertips over Sherlock's stomach and crouch. Sherlock had been sitting straight up, but he slouched down to allow John's hands better access.

John rubbed his palm over Sherlock's erection. He loved the feel of it, even through two layers of material. John began to rub harder and Sherlock hummed in his chest; it was a light sound and it made John smile.

After he unbuttoned all three of Sherlock's trouser buttons, he pushed the fly open just enough to let the top of Sherlock's cock out. John pinched the top of Sherlock's cock and felt the moisture on it. He put his mouth over it and glided his teeth around it. Sherlock gripped his hair harder and moved John's head down lower.

John sucked hard and his tongue played on the underside around Sherlock's mushroom tip. John finally pushed down Sherlock's pants and trousers and let his erection out. It was highlighted against Sherlock's purple silk shirt. John gave the view before him a lingering look. Once John had seen that shirt he knew he had to have Sherlock; it was almost evil how tight and sensual it contrasted his pale skin.

Sherlock's head popped up at the lost of warm wet mouth. Sherlock eyed John, and he was happy to see how lost Sherlock already looked. Sherlock's eyes became dark and dangerous when he was turned on. It was less guarded, and John loved to bring this side out of Sherlock. Something that only he, John Watson, was privileged to see.

His mouth came down again and he bobbed his head in a tantalizing manner. John began to pick up his speed and Sherlock's cock gently knocked up against the roof of John's mouth.

Sherlock's body became rigid and his breathing picked up speed. He let out a loud moan and John became aware to the fact that they were outside, where anyone could see them. John felt excitement bubble in his chest; he hadn't done anything this sexual reckless in awhile. It was fantastic.

"John, I'm..." Whatever Sherlock was going to say next was drowned out by another loud groan.

He swallowed all of Sherlock and gave his cock one final go around with his tongue for good measure.

With a self-satisfied smirk, John put Sherlock back in his pants, and buttoned up his trousers and shirt again. He sat down next to Sherlock and placed his hands on Sherlock's thigh.

"Now you know what to expect when you wear that shirt."

* * *

 

John smiled as he walked down the small cobbled path. Sherlock had hurried ahead back to the Nautilus to categorize his findings and John decided take a more leisurely pace back to return the wine glasses to the small shop they had passed on the way to the meadow.

John saw a man coming up along the path and was happy when he recognized it as Lestrade. John waved his hand in greeting and Lestrade did the same. John was not surprised to see that the man had a troubled expression clouding his features; it had been a rough journey for the detective too.

"Dr. Watson." Lestrade bowed his head.

"Detective. How are you?"

Lestrade sighed and darted his eyes in an uneasy manner. "I'm happy to find you alone. I need to talk with you."

John knitted his brows together. "Whatever for? Shouldn't you want to discuss any information with Sherlock?"

"Well, when I say 'I', I really mean 'he' needs to talk to you." Lestrade's words came out in a tumble.

John was beyond confused. "That did absolutely nothing to clarify the situation."

Lestrade sucked in a deep breath and straightened his back. "Mycroft wishes to speak with you."

John's eyes widened in shock. Anything that he had been expecting, this had not been it.


	17. Arch 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fantastic Beta: Twolovesonestone

"So, you are the famous doctor John Watson."

Although it took all the effort he could muster, John managed to keep a straight face. He wasn't going to allow himself to be baited by Mycroft Holmes-or any Holmes for that matter.

John had followed Lestrade into a small cottage. It looked very unassuming and was far from what John imagined he would be taken too. He reminded himself of the old saying 'a wolf in sheep's clothing'; this encounter was sure to test that theory to its limit.

Lestrade continued to act more jittery and a thin layer of sweat was starting to glisten on his brow. John wanted to ask if he was all right, but he didn't want to embarrass the man, so he paid him no attention. Besides, Lestrade had gotten himself in to this mess all his own, (John knew it wasn't true, but it was a comforting lie).

John placed his cane and hat at the front entrance at Lestrade's request. The cottage had a quint open feel to it and John would have thought a ditty old grandmother lived there. It had gaudy wallpaper and doilies on every available surface. John surveyed the room to discover any traps or hidden passages, he had been on the battlefield; doctor or not. Army mode had kicked in and John's thought pattern became one of a solider.

They walked out of the hallway into the last room on the right. There was a huge bay window and John was blinded by the sudden blast of sunlight. His pupils readjusted and John was greeted with his first view of Mycroft Holmes, sitting cozy in a horribly patterned armchair. He made no move to stand up or shake hands. Instead he sipped at his tea until John finally spoke up.

"We might as well be on with it then."

There were so many questions floating around John's head but he wasn't going to give Mycroft the satisfaction of seeing it. Plus this was the man who had told Sherlock to 'guard his emotions' and not get involved with him. John didn't necessarily resent what Mycroft had said (it all made horrible sense now), but that didn't mean that John had to fall over himself to help or provide any information willingly.

Mycroft gave him a once over after he put his teacup and saucer down. The right side of his mouth cocked upward. "I never found that my brother had good taste."

Despite his best effort, John blushed. "Do you mean for friends or lovers?"

"Friends? He has none. As for lovers," Mycroft gave he a hard look. "he is not called 'the virgin' without reason.

John tried to hid his shock.  _This man has to be teasing me. There is no way Sherlock is a..._ John gulped and couldn't finish his thought.

Mycroft gave him a lazy smile. "As Greg has already so generously told you, I am Mycroft Holmes. I would say 'it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance' but really doctor it is not." At the sound of his name, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade walked over to Mycroft's armchair and stood at attention on the left side. The detectives eyes darted down for only a second before fixating themselves at the wall.

John frowned. "No matter what you may have against me, I haven't done anything to harm Sherlock intensionally. I love him."

"I do worry about him, and with your presence I have been forced to worry more. I do not appreciate that. As for loving him, that was rather quick, wasn't it? How sure are you of his affections doctor? Or of yours for that matter."

John balled his hands into fists. "I don't have explain anything to you. Now, Mycroft, if you are done with your theatrics I would like to go back to the airship."

"I did not come here just to sip tea and have a nice 'chat'. There are serious repercussions for your actions, and I am not sure whether or not you are ready to handle them."

John thought back on the last few days; he didn't recall anything being 'easy' about them. "I can assure you, that I have had a fair taste of what having this power, and your brother in my life can do."

Mycroft tilted his head and brought his fingers up in the steeple style that Sherlock did so often. John wondered which Holmes' brother had copied who. "I do not think you really do realize it doctor. If it were not for my bother's 'affections' towards you, I would have you killed." His look was deadly serious. "I could doctor. In so many different ways and no one would be the wiser. Ever."

John wasn't going to take any of this man's over the topic antics. The open expression that normally shone on John's face was replaced by the solider who had killed many man before. "Threats do not work on me. Either do what you threaten or leave me in peace. I refuse to be bullied."

Mycroft laughed and it was a giddier sound than John thought possible to come from the man before him. His features soften immediately and a playful smile played on his lips. Lestrade also loosen his shoulders and he let out a long breathe.

"You are a spunky one, aren't you? Fine, fine; as you say. I retract my empty threats, but I did have to test you. That's what us Holmes' always do; reach a hypothesis and then experiment with it."

John couldn't believe the change that had come over the man; like night and day. However the jovially grin was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Mycroft was back to business.

Mycroft turned his eyes to Lestrade.

The detective cleared his throat. "I have been informed that although this may be the case, I am still keeping an eye out on you two." Lestrade's back straightened and John saw Lestrade facing his duty. "I want no more funny business from the two of you! You both need to get to London; with no more murders and no more alchemy!"

Mycroft smiled at Lestrade and then turned back to John. "I have eyes everywhere, and not just detective inspector Lestrade. Every move you make will be reported to me." Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "I would have you under a microscope."

John blushed remembering what had happened on the bench not even an hour before.

Mycroft popped up an eyebrow. "And I mean  _every_ move."

* * *

 

John had been determined to tell Sherlock about his encounter with his brother but as soon as he had opened the door, he was accosted with questions.

"It was my brother, wasn't it? What did he do? What did he say? Did he threaten you?" Before John could answer, Sherlock was already answering his own questions. "Oh, never mind. I know what he did. Same old melodramatic babble I'm sure. He could never keep his nose out of other people's business. Although, in a way this is his 'business' but still..." Sherlock finished with a huff and bent back over his notebook again, making sketches of the specimens he had collected.

John sighed and sunk down onto the bed. "Yes, to all." John had some of his own questions that couldn't be answered on his own. "How the hell does your brother get off doing something like that? I really am in the dark here."

Sherlock laughed. "Well, according to him, he holds 'a small position in the British government', but he  _is_ the government; of Britain and many other countries."

John remembered back on how all the guests had inquired about him at the dinner party. John bit his lower lip.  _Maybe I was more rude than I should have been._

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "No John. He is not worth either your respect or your time."

"But, if what you say is true..."

"Believe me John. He is not worth it." John could hear the bitterness lining Sherlock's voice and wanted to erase it.

He went up to Sherlock and planted a quick hard kiss on his lips. John grabbed at his label and gave a soft smile. "He is full of hot air, isn't he?"

Sherlock nodded and went back to his work. "Yes, he was always one for theatrics."

John hid a grin and started to look for the novel he had started earlier.

* * *

 

John sipped at his coffee and contemplated on what he would do for the day. Sherlock had stayed up all night (again) and after 42 hours of no sleep Sherlock's body had finally betrayed him and he had collapsed into bed at 5am.

 _At least I got the kidnapping out of the way yesterday._ John had to laugh at the situation because when he started to count how many times he had been adducted the last couple of weeks, it was truly a frightening number.

He finished breakfast and smoked his last cigarette out on the observation deck.  _Well, there you have it._ John extinguished his cigarette and felt a lightness. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but the aether had not been to keen on the tobacco. He wasn't getting the nicotine high and he wondered if the aether had been blocking it.

It was around 10am when he finally departed. The novelty of the floating island hadn't weakened for any of the other passengers on the Nautilus and John got the jostling he had missed out on the day before.

He swung his cane around and hummed to himself. He had brought his sketchbook and hoped to brush up on his rusted artistic skills. Writing in the journal had helped put many of the past events into perspective for him and he hoped the sketching would do the same for the island.

Something about the place bothered John and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't put his finger on the reason.  _I could use your help on this one._ He didn't know what the aether could do, but help (of any kind) was always welcomed by John Watson.

He found a sunny spot and leaned up against a huge oak tree. John was shocked to see how fully grown all the greenery was, even though Asmayda was a relatively new island. Maybe that was one of the main problems chipping away at his mind; everything looked too old.

Instead of opening the sketchbook, John curled his legs up and placed his chin on his knees.  _Many of the forests have spirits or nymphs but not up here, it couldn't gather the energy it needed from earth; it would die up here._ However, John realized for some reason it wasn't; the floating island was thriving without the use of an alchemist. Whether the force keeping the forest so alive was benevolent or not...well, John didn't think it was his decision to make. But he did know who's it was.

He closed his eyes and focused on the ground underneath him. It was covered in light grass and small rocks. He concentrated on touching every curve of the earth with all the nerves that could reach out to them.

A greenish tint started to seep through John's eyelids and he knew the aether was reaching out and examining it. What the aether found filled him with a violent shock. His body shock and he closed the connection. If he didn't know any better, it was as if Asmayda was being poisoned and it had just begged him for help.

John heard a rusting and whipped his head up to look at his right. He gasped at the green eyes that stared back at him.


	18. Arch 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took waaaaay too long to post and I am so sorry.

John was transfixed by the green eyes staring back at him. His breathing slowed and he didn’t blink. Anticipation was holding him in place, but John wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. 

The figure in the shadows cautiously made its way towards John. As its face was struck by daylight, John could finally see what it was. A gigantic dog...hound; wolf? It didn’t seem to really fit any of those descriptions, other than it was canine shaped. 

Its fur was full and the pelt color seemed to change as it made its came closer. It was a light gray, with hints of white and some greens and browns. The colors radiated life and John was reminded of earth. 

The wolf was hesitant and John put his hands up in surrender and welcome. John didn’t feel any danger, but only an odd concern. After he had took in the general appearance of the wolf, John was shocked to see how thin and tired it looked. The edges of it smudged into the surroundings; making it look otherworldly. 

John’s suspicions were confirmed when the wolf sat down next to him and leaned its head close. John brought his hand up and touched its muzzle. 

Without warning, John was flooded with emotions, sights and sounds. He felt fear and hate pulsating through his body, but there was an underlying sadness to all of it. He saw the island as it had been, attached to another part of land; concreted down on earth. He heard the forest dying, the pleas of the creature falling on deaf ears.  _Please help us. Help us live. We are trapped. Help us!_

John began to stroke the wolf’s fur and he felt the aether bubble up in him. He concentrated the energy into his hand and directed it to transfer from him to the creature. His hand pulsated green and the wolf’s fur, under John’s hand, began to glow softly. 

The wolf pushed into his touch and he could feel some of its fear dissipating. John removed his hand and the wolf gently licked his palm. It lowered its head and placed it in John’s lap. John began to pet it. Now it was stronger and could properly communicate. 

 _Who are you?_ John asked. 

 _I am the spirit of these woods. Undine. I was captured when the island was placed in the air. I’ve been kept alive through an old, dark magic._ The creature explained. 

John nodded his head in understanding. It all made horrible twisted sense; how else could Asmayda look this glorious? 

 _What can I do?_ John wanted to help this creature, he needed too. It wasn’t a choice. 

 _I have been waiting to find someone like you John Watson. A caring heart, with the ability to end my entrapment. If you can break the enchantment keeping me chained to this place I will be able to escape._ Undine continued calmly.  _Every other spirit that once resided here is gone. I am all that is left._

John interrupted.  _If that’s so, how is the forest still so alive?_

_My captors keep increasing the magic that controls my powers. Like a steroid, it is increasing my power but at a cost._

John understood all too well what Undine was telling him.  _It will kill you, won’t it?_

 _Yes, yes, it will. John Watson I can no longer live this way. Caught in a limbo of life and death. I have waited for you. I beg you, help me._ Undine let out a small whine. 

John was at a loss. What could he do? He knew who he had to ask. 

* * *

 

Before he went back to the ship, John stopped to purchase a drink. He went inside the small shop he had tried to return the wine glasses to the day before. There were a few men inside smoking cigars. He sniffed in the smoke and felt sick to his stomach. However, that was not going to deter him from his goal. 

“Double scotch please.” 

There was a pretty little thing working the bar. She had mousy brown hair and won’t met John’s eyes. He was surprised to see a female at all. “What are you doing here?” He asked as he took the scotch from her. 

The question seemed to fluster her and she blushed. “My father is busy today, so I’m working in his place. Does it bother you? I mean...should a girl not be here?” The young girl blushed even deeper. 

John brought the scotch to his lips and swallowed it all in one gigantic gulp. Her eyes got big and John felt the alcohol hit him hard. He gave her a guilty smile. “No, anyone can be here. I was just being nosy. Forgive me.” Against his better judgement, he asked for another. 

She placed it down in front of him and John found this mouth moving before he could stop it. “What’s your name?”

She looked dumbfounded for a moment before she answered. “Molly Hooper.” 

John raised his glass. “John Watson. At your service.” He knocked back the drink. “Tell me, Ms. Hooper, how do you like living here?” 

“Fair enough,” Molly hesitated. 

“But...?”

“But, something seems out of place lately.” 

John kept a straight face. “How do you mean?” He pointed to his empty glass and Ms. Hooper poured him another. 

“It might sound odd, but the air hasn’t seemed right ever since...well, ever since he died.” Molly took in a deep breath. 

“Who died?”

“There was another man who worked here. He always liked nature, that’s why he picked this island. He went out a few nights ago and he never came back. I liked him, he was nice.” She shifted uncomfortably. 

“Was there anything...unusual about him? Unique?” 

Molly bit her lip. “He dabbled in magic, but that’s so common these days. It was weak, but he had a sort of elegance about it. He was teaching me some alchemy, before he disappeared.” 

John gulped down his third scotch promising to himself it would be his last. “He was skilled at magic? That’s interesting.” He produced the coins to pay for his drinks and stood up. “Ms. Hooper, my condolences on the loss of your friend. Do not worry though, for I believe it will be the last.” 

Molly nodded her head, confusion written all over her face. 

* * *

John had meant to discuss the meeting with the mystical creature with Sherlock as soon as he returned to 221B, he really had. But the sight that awaited John had him forgetting everything he had just seen. 

Sherlock was laid out on the bed in the nude He was in his thinking pose and John was sure the detective had just taken a shower, had meant to get dressed but his thoughts had overtaken him and Sherlock had had a glitch; and that meant collapsing on the bed in his present state. 

He hadn’t even flinched when John had opened and closed the door. Sherlock’s eyes didn’t flutter open when John took off his hat and jacket. The man on the bed remained unmoving as John crept onto the bed and straddled him. 

 John’s hands moved up and down Sherlock’s torso and arms. He still had a sheen of water on him. John traced his collar bone and jaw; constantly impressed with the man’s sharp angles. His fingers moved through the extremely light amount of hair on Sherlock’s chest. 

His thumbs rubbed lightly over Sherlock’s closed eyelids and John pushed his fingers through Sherlock’s wet black curls. He bent down and placed a small kiss on either side of Sherlock’s mouth. He moved his mouth down and licked up some of the water clinging to the other man’s skin. John placed an open-mouthed kiss on his neck; Sherlock moaned. 

John didn’t feel a hint of guilt at breaking Sherlock’s concentration. Sherlock was slow at waking up and John took advantage of it. He brought his lips up to Sherlock and gently pushed his tongue in between Sherlock’s slightly parted lips. 

Sherlock began to wiggle underneath him and John could feel every part of Sherlock waking up. John rubbed his hips down on Sherlock, and it took him only a few seconds to mirror the action. John brought his hands back to Sherlock’s mess of hair and pinned his head down on the pillow. 

Sherlock’s hands came up to either side of John and gripped his hips. He pulled John down hard on him. John bit down on Sherlock’s lip and nibbled lightly on the edge of it. Sherlock’s tongue began to move and found John’s. 

With quick dexterity, Sherlock moved his hands up to John’s shirt and began to unbutton it. He had never opened his eyes, but seemed to know where every part of John was placed. John’s shirt was tugged down and Sherlock twisted each of John’s nipples. John gave a tiny yelp and Sherlock smiled into their kiss. 

Instead of moving faster, John took his time grinding himself painfully slow over Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock bucked up and John felt himself being picked up and back. Sherlock went for John’s trouser’s next, and they, along with his pants, got pushed down over his knees. 

John leaned forward and brought his face to nuzzle under Sherlock’s right ear. Sherlock’s fingers traced over John’s shoulder blades and spine. He then began to scratch up and down until John could feel his blood pooling to the surface. 

John couldn’t feel any pain, to him it was just a blind feeling of having both of their cocks rub up against each other. John brought his hand in between them and gently grabbed both of them together. 

Sherlock’s nails pushed into John’s fleshy ass. John’s other hand grasped the bedpost and used it to increase their speed. Sherlock’s hands guided John’s motions, so that all John had to concentrate on was their cocks. 

With water and sweat mingling, their bodies moved easily against each other. 

“God, John.” Sherlock’s husky voice gasped. 

“Sherlock.” He wanted to say more but couldn’t articulate anything beyond repeating Sherlock’s name. 

This seemed to send the man below him over the edge and Sherlock’s body tightened and then was racked with a violent shiver as he came. John was quick to follow, hearing Sherlock groan deeply. 

John rolled off of him and continued to pant; trying to catch his breath. They both laid together, side by side, basking in the high of it. Sherlock reached over and grabbed John’s hand. Sherlock reached under him and found the towel he had been using earlier. He cleaned off his chest and tossed the towel aside. 

Sherlock propped himself up and looked down at John. Sherlock’s eyes were hazy and shone brightly. His cheeks were flushed and his hair was going in every direction possible. John felt his chest get tight, and knew the happiness and awe of it all reflected in his face. 

Sherlock smiled. “You are beautiful John.” 

John felt his face flare up. “Only because I have you.” He wanted to bury his face in his hands but he couldn’t break Sherlock’s gaze boring down on him. He felt a need to convey how important Sherlock really was to him. 

“I have something to tell you.” John finally said. 

“As do I.” 


	19. Arch 19

"Fascinating."

It had been almost ten minutes since John had told Sherlock all that had happened to him. Sherlock had taken on his thinking pose and hadn't moved since, other than to mumble the occasional comment. John was impatient to be off, but he knew Sherlock needed his 'sorting time'. Although it wasn't more than a few minutes, it stretched on for an eternity.

John finally tugged a shirt onto Sherlock. Sighing after Sherlock had swatted him away while trying to put on his trousers; John poured himself a cup of tea and went over the events in his mind again.

He sighed internally. "Should we tell your brother?" John could barely believe that  _those words_ had just come out of his mouth. He tried not to let his distaste be too apparent.

If looks could kill, John was sure his insides would be fried. Sherlock pursed his lips. "My  _brother_  does not need to know anything. His power does not reach out to control me or you."

John steeled his nerves. "I'm telling Lestrade." It was true that both the DI and the 'minor government official' had no business in it, but John felt that it really was the safer route to take. He was dealing with things he had never dreamed would be possible in his boring existence. God forbid they really did need Mycroft's help, John wanted to make sure it came immediately.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, but gave up. John was happy that Sherlock finally realized he could be just as stubborn as he could be.

"I'm not going to tell him everything. Just enough." John clarified.

Sherlock gave him a look and finished putting on his trousers.

"So, will you come with me? Now?" John was impatient to get back to the island.

"Let me get a few things."

* * *

 

"It was here before. I swear it."

They were in the small meadow where John had met the creature, Undine. There was no sign of it and none that it would be showing up. Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently but kept quiet. John searched around becoming frantic. Realizing that it was not doing him any good, John stopped all movement and tried to look with his other senses.

A tingle worked up his fingertips and he knew it was the aether. He let it take over and soon it was working its way up his arms and down into his toes. It radiated outwards and John could feel it dripping into the earth below him.

"John?" Sherlock sounded worried. John couldn't imagine what he looked like, glowing green probably. "What are you doing?"

He wanted to answer, but he couldn't break his concentration. He let the aether branch out into the air. John knew what it was doing; calling out to Undine in a way that his human part could not. It strained to relay the message:  _Its safe to come out. Sherlock Holmes can help you. Please let us help you._ John focused on sending out a warmth of security and kindness. Within a minute, John could see the green eyes of Undine in the shadows.

The aether drew back into him, and he crouched down. Undine approached hesitantly, its eyes trained on Sherlock. It allowed John to pet its head and John could feel the tension leaving Undine's stance. The creature sat down and spoke to him.  _Can I trust this man?_

John smiled at Undine. He then looked behind him and beckoned Sherlock over by motioning with his head. Sherlock creeped forward, avoiding all sudden movements. John stood up and grasped Sherlock's hand. John looked directly into Undine's eyes, hiding none of his emotions.  _I trust this man with every fiber of my being._

Undine nodded its head,  _Understood._

Sherlock could not hear their conversation, but he understood that there was one happening between John and the creature. Sherlock tried to decipher it from their body language. "I will help you in any way I can." It was not normally a phrase that would pass through Sherlock's mouth, but if this creature needed John's help, and John needed him... _Damn, sentiment._

Undine nodded again and Sherlock took out the items he had brought with him. Magnifying glass, chemicals, and a bit of his alchemy chalk. He examined the external body of the creature, obviously otherworldly. Sherlock could feel no pulse and heard no heartbeat-more proof that most likely the animal in front of him was more magic than flesh.

Sherlock took out his chalk and drew the image he needed on the ground. He dipped his fingers in a greyish liquid and started to chant. Although John knew it was for Undine, John could feel his aether being affected by the words. He felt warmer and a calm blanketed him.

Undine's head dropped and it allowed Sherlock's words to overcome him; all protection down. Suddenly the air around the canine turned black and a horrible dread clung around it. The wind stopped and the green grass under them started to wilt. Undine let out a whimper of pain but it allowed Sherlock to continue. John tried to reach out to Undine but the glare he received from Sherlock stopped him.

The black shadow passed and Sherlock wiped his hands on a cloth. He didn't speak a word as he used his boot to erase the pattern he had drawn on the ground. John finally touched Undine and it stung him.

John stared down at his hand in surprise; his fingertips were burned. John turned to Sherlock his face contorted in confusion.

Sherlock had his head bowed. He let out one long breath before he spoke.

"We can't help it John."

John furrowed his brows. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock wrung his hands, twisting the cloth. He methodically began to put his tools away. "Its been poisoned; badly, repetitively. Whoever or whatever is keeping it alive has spilled human blood to do so."

John gasped. "What Ms. Hooper told me?" He gave a pained expression to Undine.

Sherlock continued. "Yes, he was sacrificed to keep this creature alive. The man's magic was drained to feed it," Sherlock paused,"and it has also poisoned it in the process. No matter what it will die. There is nothing we can do, other than to actively prevent any other murders by the person who committed the previous one. Most likely a fool dabbling in magic too strong for him."

"Don't you care what happens to Undine?" John's voice strained.  _Why didn't Sherlock want to help? How could he be so heartless?_

"Caring is not an advantage John." Sherlock's mouth was a thin line, his eyes devoid of anything. "Let us go back to the Nautilus. There is nothing more we can do here."

"No!" John's jaw clenched. "Who are you?"

"This is me. I solved the puzzle. Caring has never saved anyone."

John's eyes softened. "It saved me." He licked his lips. "You saved me."

Sherlock's facade broke and John finally saw some of the hurt and confusion he had felt mirrored on Sherlock. It wasn't enough though. John turned to Undine.  _I suppose it's just the two of us than. Come on._

John made his way into the forest and Undine followed him. Sherlock made no move to stop them.

* * *

 

John racked his brain for what he could do but he was at a complete loss. He wasn't the brain, that was Sherlock. John sighed bitterly.  _What a prat._ He wanted to stay angry but all he felt was a deep sadness. John finally accepted that it might be a lost cause to rescue Undine, but the least they could do was make his transition a peaceful one.

He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. John knew that Sherlock cared, but it wasn't something the man was comfortable admitting; as if caring was a disadvantage. John sighed. He couldn't even run his fingers through Undine's fur to help calm his nerves. Whatever Sherlock had done, it had released some of the negative energies in Undine and the aether could not touch it.

_John Watson._

John opened his eyes. He gazed over at the creature.

_I want you to kill me. If it is too late for me, I don't want anyone else to die._

John balled his hands so tight he could feel his fingernails digging into his palms; he concentrated on the pain.  _No, I can help you. I don't need him._

The sadness in Undine's eyes was infinite.  _I accept my fate. Now you must accept yours._

There was a heaviness in John's chest and helplessness settled down around him. In a split second, he bolted up and steeled his features. "I am a solider! I am no coward!"

He glared at Undine.  _I understand._ He gripped the gun that was cradled in the nook of his back.  _But I'm killing the bastard who did this to you first._

* * *

 

 

Sherlock paced back and forth in his cabin. He had tried to work on his compounds but his mind kept wandering back to John. He shattered a vial against the wall and yelled. He had tried to figure out a way to purify its aether again but it wasn't possible. The creature had to die.

He understood it. It was a fact and one cannot argue with those. Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair. Why did John have to care the way he did? Why did he have to care? Sherlock collapsed in his chair.

With eyes closed, Sherlock went to the inner most part of his mind. The place where he could access his thoughts and theories with perfect clarity. His hands began to dance as his mind raced. As Sherlock conducted his silent orchestra, he had his epiphany.

Sherlock brought his hands together in a loud clap. It had hit him like a lightning bolt.  _If that is the way it has to be, then so it shall be._

He bounded out of his chair and grabbed his coat. Sherlock would not leave John alone in his hour of need. In not being present, he was allowing his caring to affect him and it was a dangerous disadvantage.

* * *

 

John sat in stunned silence. He had been about to heal Undine, to offer it a last bound of strength, when suddenly the creature had been overtaken by a fantastic change. There had been a shrill whistling sound, and then its eyes had turned from green to black, and it had began to snarl at John. Before he could approach it, Undine had dashed away.

 _What had caused such a dramatic change to overcome it?_ John realized it had to be tied to the noise he had heard, but it had echoed in the woods and he couldn't pinpoint its location.

John got to his feet and looked at the direction that Undine had taken. He was ready to break into a run, when a familiar voice stopped him. "John!"

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. "Sherlock? What are you doing here?"

Sherlock ran right up to him and kissed John hard on the mouth. They parted. "Funny thing, this caring. I won't let it stop me protecting you."

John stared at Sherlock bewildered by words. "What?"

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and broke out into a run. "Come John! The game is on!"


	20. Arch 20

John had questions swirling around his head, but he knew there was no time to ask Sherlock. Instead, he allowed a warm feeling to envelope his chest.  _Sherlock came back._ It cemented the fact that, no matter how John needed him, Sherlock would be there for him.

Suddenly, Sherlock pulled John behind a tree. If John had had his way, he would have gone in 'guns a blazing' but Sherlock had drawn him back, and covered his mouth with a hand when he had tried to argue.

They had found Undine and the sight that lay before them was twisted. A man was standing over the animal with a needle. He had almost plunged the needle in but had hesitated. Undine was still trapped in a sort of hypnotic trance and stood stock still next to his captor.

The man surveyed the woods around him. Sherlock knew they were about to be exposed and motioned for John to grab his gun. As John cocked his gun, Sherlock pulled on a white glove. It had an odd circular symbol on the top of it.

Sherlock gave him one final look before he leaped out from behind the tree. John appeared at the other side of the tree and pointed his gun at the mysterious man. The figure gasped in surprise but he didn't try and run. He stood still.

"Let Undine go!" John shouted.

The man smirked. "Now what do we have here? A pair of do-gooders?"

Sherlock raised his hand, making sure the man could see his glove. "I just prefer not to see innocence die. You were the one who killed them, all those creatures of wonder and ancient magic. For your own benefit and then for this 'experiment'."

"True. The lure of it. Limitless magic at the expense of others. I was promised fuel if I just kept the island alive. Lush and full, for gentlemen such as yourselves. It's amazing what money will buy."

Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock commented. "Black magic. How dull, but the way you have harnessed it...more impressive than the average warlock." Sherlock took a step forward. "And yet, you are now a vampire of sorts. Unable to harness your power without taking it from others."

"Distilling the spirit; the magical ability of others. A little hobby of mine. Although it has become a necessity to staying alive. Thankfully, the gore never bothered me." His eyes turned to John and they took on a sick glow. "Once I am finished with you, I will take all the aether from your little friend John Watson. It will be delicious, taking all that raw power and doing with it what I will."

In the next second, Sherlock snapped his gloved fingers and flames sprung up from them. He directed them at the warlock, but his attack missed. The man moved with a speed neither Sherlock or John had ever seen before. John shot, but the bullet only embedded itself a tree truck.

Sherlock dashed towards the man and released another torrent of flame. John steadied his aim and fired again. The bullet grazed the warlock's cheek and he howled. It was ungodly but at the sound Undine snapped out of his spell.

He blocked the flame and a dark mist engulfed the man. It began to stretch out like tendrils and he lifted his arms. After shouting indistinct words, the mist shot out at Sherlock and John; swallowing them both.

* * *

"Sherlock! Sherlock!"

John had no idea how much time had passed. It seemed an eternity that he had been stumbling, calling out for the man in the thick fog. All that he heard was silence in all directions. He broke out into a run, moving but never covering any distance.

A flicker of light stopped John dead in his tracks. He squinted towards the light and moved his steps toward it. Voices, familiar voices, rung out in John's head and all around him.  _Why am I never good enough? I try and all I do is fail._

A gasp racked John's body.  _Harry. That's Harry's voice but..._

This had been the last conversation he had had with her. When she had given him the cigarette case and told him that it was over between her and Clara. When John had thought that all love was dead in the world.

"Harry! It's me! Can you hear me?!" John cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted.

_It had felt so real. How did this happen? Does anyone know what love is?_

"Clara..." It had broken his heart, as Clara had cried and knocked back drink after drink. When he had come to visit, John had no idea the state of their relationship. He had just wanted to spend time with his sister and sister-in-law, and this had been the mess that had greeted him instead. Two drunk sobbing women, living in two different parts of the city, bitter about how they couldn't make it work.

"She does love you Clara! The drinking it..." But who was John explaining this too? He still hadn't seen a soul; only the voices. It was so black and the fog was crushing in on him, draining his body and mind.

John buried his face in his hands and screamed.

* * *

Sherlock cautiously took in his surroundings. It was pitch black and fog danced all around him. He knew what this was. A cloaking spell, blind your opponent and then attack. Although, Sherlock had never seen a magic so effective, so strong...He smiled at the memory of Moriarty.  _That was a puzzle still waiting to be solved._

He took a few steps forward and made the decision to snap a fireball into the darkness. Sherlock was rewarded with it flickering out into the distance. With a sigh, Sherlock made his way.

_Why do you care Sherlock? Does it help? Can you deduce faster?_

"Mummy...?" Sherlock knew he couldn't believe his ears. There was no way his mother would be there. She was back in Quebec, enjoying a few months vacation before she went back to New York. He had visited her, had been forced to visit her and it hadn't gone well; it never did.

Sherlock didn't need to be reminded of his faults. Lord, knows how Mycroft never let him forget them. But his mother, Mummy, she always remembered the one time Sherlock had cared and how it had affected his ability to reason.

It had been a small wounded bird he had tried to help, but it had died in his arms. He had taken it to his mother, sobbing as he asked his Mummy to "Please, please help him." Sherlock let the words he would never forget fall from his lips.

She had given his a stern look. "Sherlock, put that filthy thing outside and go upstairs and study. Your finals are next week."

Another sob wrecked his six year old body. "But Mummy! Please!" He cupped the dead bird closer to his chest. He didn't see the snarl contort his mother's lips.

"Sherlock! Put. it. outside. now."

He flinched back and turned his tear stained eyes to his mother. Her features were rock hard. "Caring will not save it Sherlock. No emotion ever will; love, empathy are dangerous hindrances to reason and order. Now, do as mother says."

Sherlock let out a small hiccup and turned to go outside. He buried the small sparrow and said a little prayer for it. He made his way upstairs and tried to work on his studies, but all he could think of was the small life that had slipped through his fingers. His mother had been right. No matter how hard he wished, the small bird was never going to fly again. A few tears squeezed out of his eyes and dampened his study papers. He gripped his pen and tried to focus.

Sherlock remembered how he had gotten less than perfect marks. The way his mother had looked at him, with such contempt, it could have frozen any heart.

...and it had.

Sherlock gripped both sides of his head, demanding the swirling memories to stop.

* * *

John calmed himself and felt the cold steel of his gun in his hand.  _There is reason, there is order. This is only an illusion._ John was better able to accept this fact after what Irene Adler had done to him.

A now common action, he honed in on his aether. It might not be able to release him from the spell but it could light his way. It began to work up to his fingers and John concentrated it into his fingertips.

John followed the light. Occasionally he called out Sherlock's name, but no reply came. A heaviness set in John's legs and his pace slowed down. Maybe if he thought of Sherlock; used his inner compass. John closed his eyes and let Sherlock invade his senses.

_The smell of him. Those soft curls and the way light danced off of them. A light blush on his cheeks after a passionate kiss. The way Sherlock touched him like he might break; so precious. His warm lips covering his body and making him feel alive. How Sherlock allowed all to fall away and only saw him, John Watson._

He heard another voice. It wasn't Clara or Harry, not even his own. "Sherlock." John breathed out gently. But the voice he heard did not sound like the Sherlock he knew. John ran with his eyes closed; not sure if it was his mind or body that was moving.

John opened his eyes and spotted Sherlock. He was huddled on the floor. Whispering to himself. "No. No. No, Mummy. I..I...am like you. Like Mycroft." John kneeled down and touched Sherlock's shoulder. The sight that greeted John made him gasp.

Sherlock wasn't crying but his eyes were wide as saucers and glistening. His face was pale white and John realized he was in shock. John sent soothing words out to Sherlock and mumbled into his hair. Sherlock broke from his trance.

"John." He cried in a hoarse whisper. "It was you. Broken in my arms. I asked...I  _begged_ for them to save you." Sherlock's eyes closed tight.

John kissed his eyelids. "Its the fog, Sherlock. Its taking out repressed emotions and using them against us."

Sherlock calmed and opened his eyes. "That's why its affecting me more than you."

John helped pull him to a standing position. Sherlock righted himself and let out one final sniff. "Thank you, John." He avoided eye contact. John brought his hands up to Sherlock's face. Green glistened around his features. John smiled.

Sherlock smiled back.

John grabbed the power that he had been too afraid to touch before. Light exploded in his eyes and John was blinded. He faintly heard Sherlock calling for him but John had to grasp the aether with everything he had. This, this was the true power of the aether. John had just been glossing over it, not needing it all; but now it was desperate.

They needed to be out of the fog, and for once, John needed to be the one who could save Sherlock.


	21. Arch 21

John clung onto Sherlock. A light engulfed them both and when John opened his eyes; they were back in the forest. John let go of Sherlock and he stepped back.

John was on fire. Every bone in his body was humming. His veins felt like liquid metal was running through them. He lifted his hands and they were white with green glowing around him. John didn't know how long he could control it or how much longer he would last. But it had to be done, and quickly.

The man lifted his hands and shot a ball of energy at John. Without a second thought, John's hands moved in an intricate spell that he had never learned. Green brust through his fingertips and blocked the attack. It then stretched out and reached out to grab the warlock.

He dodged and started to run towards John. He jumped and was about to tackle John, when another tendril of aether reached out from him. It wrapped around the warlock's arms and tightened around his neck. John could feel it strangling the man. John had killed many men but it had always been with a bullet.

Now, he could feel the man's pulse slowly fading. He was fighting, thrashing against his restraints. John felt more power surge through him and squeezed tighter.

"John! Stop!"

John snapped out of his trance. Sherlock was gripping both of his shoulders. John tried to shrug him off, but Sherlock clung on so tight that John could feel it bruising his skin. "John! Wake up!" Sherlock shook him. "Let him go!" John tried to understand Sherlock's words. They didn't make any sense. Let him go? Why?

John ignored the other man's words and gave his full attention back to the warlock in his power. If he put just a bit more pressure around his neck. John let the aether have more control. It burst in him, and John's heart was beating out of control. He gripped harder.

"John! You're going to kill yourself!"

The words rang in his head. It was true. John's body couldn't handle the aether for much longer. It was pulsating, ripping apart his cells in its search for more power. John was afraid that if he let warlock go he would kill them; kill Sherlock. How could they hope to defeat this monster without otherworldly power?

Sherlock's arms wrapped around his waist. The taller man pressed himself into John; trying to sooth him. A calm radiated from Sherlock and he used it to pacify the aether. The man wouldn't listen, maybe the aether would.  _Please, I beg of you. I love this man, don't take away everything that is precious to me._ Sherlock pleaded to it.

Against his wishes, the aether began to strengthen. Sherlock begged but to no avail. The warlock thrashed and John concentrated pressing the power into the esophagus of the man.  _Almost._

There was a wet sensation on John's neck. It stung and John found his attention pulled to it. The aether loosened its grip some and John could feel a face scrunched up against his neck.  _Tears._ John gasped and the light began to dim in his eyes. He could see around him again. The entire forest was bursting with green light and radiated warmly with magical power. John's grip slipped and the warlock was able to wiggle one arm out of his grasp.

John almost sent his aether out to reattach another tendril to him but stopped. Sherlock was shaking and he could hear him pleading against his neck.  _Please stop. Please stop. Oh, god, don't let him die._ Realization snapped John back to his senses.

He calmed his breathing and slowed his heartbeat. The light began to fade and John felt his grip loosening on the warlock. John whispered to Sherlock. "Be ready." Sherlock let go of his waist and took a ready stance beside him.

The warlock wiggled out of his grasp and dropped to the ground. He twitched and writhed. Sherlock walked up to him and snapped his fingers. A burst of fire engulfed him and the warlock screamed in agony. All the aether drew back into John and his vision came back to him.

Sherlock was standing over the dead body of the warlock; it was burned and twisted beyond recognition. John spotted movement in the grass and moved towards Undine. The creature was lying down whimpering. John placed a hand on it and the aether began to bubble up in him again.

It was a different feeling than before. This time, it was a guiding light instead of an all encompassing blaze. It warmed him and he transferred it to Undine. The creature gave a soft whimper. John gently pet his muzzle with his other hand and soothed it as the life was drained from its spirit form.

John felt a presence behind him and knew it was Sherlock. The other man placed a hand on Undine and John could feel the other power; what made up Sherlock. Together, the two man helped Undine do what it could not alone. The creature gave out one final sigh and the light left its eyes.

Sherlock gasped. A blue thread of light reflected in his pointer finger. The last trace of Undine that had once been, had buried itself inside of Sherlock. The body faded in a burst of light and sparkle.

John and Sherlock could both hear a prayer of thanks reverberate in their ears.

The wood had began to rot almost instantaneously. John embraced Sherlock and clung on for dear life. Apologies tumbled from his lips. "Sherlock, I never meant to scare you. I just...lost control." John blinked back tears. What would have happened if Sherlock hadn't been there to stop him? Would the aether have devoured him as it killed the warlock? John shivered.

Sherlock kissed the top of his head. "It's fine. Your safe now. We're safe now." Sherlock stood up and dragged John up by his hands. They took in the carnage around them. There had been burn marks everywhere but they had faded when all the leaves began to rot away.

"Is the island in danger?" John shuddered at the thought of anyone else having to die.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Only the plants will die. Mechanics and gears are keeping it in the air. Come doctor. Let us be back to the ship."

John allowed Sherlock to half carry, half drag him back to the Nautilus.

* * *

 

Sherlock groaned at the sight that awaited them at 221B. "Detective Inspector, what are you doing here?" Sherlock helped John into his chair and turned on the bunsen burner for tea.

Lestrade frowned. "I have a message from your brother." He glanced at John sympathetically. "He washes his hands of the whole situation."

"Yet, he will still clean up the mess behind." Sherlock smirked. "He doesn't want brother dearest soiling the good Holmes name." He began pacing the room.

The final rays of daylight were dancing across the room and John was transfixed by them. Maybe by the light of the moon it would all seem like a bad dream. He sighed. It was over, but John knew it really wasn't. The main problem still stood in the air, lingering over them. The final problem.

"Mycroft requested that you keep out of trouble. Mr. Holmes, Dr Watson, you didn't even manage it for a day." Lestrade pursed his lips. "Forgive me if I over step my boundaries, but I believe that the both of you just destroyed an entire ecosystem."

"He was evil...had to die." John spoke his first words and Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder. "Whether it is  _convenient_ or not, people are now safer for it."

"But you're not. The more you do this, the more attention you draw to yourselves. Mycroft was trying to keep you safe, at least safer than you were trying to be."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "Why are you calling my brother 'Mycroft'? No one is allowed to call him...oh." His eyes took on an evil gleam. "Oh."

Lestrade tottered from foot to foot, blushing slightly. "Your brother, he..."

"Yes, well, to the subject at hand." Sherlock waved away the unspoken declaration from Lestrade. "The good doctor and I will do as we please." Sherlock corralled DI Lestrade towards the door. "Please be so kind as to tell  _Mycroft_ that I will send him a message when I am good and ready" Sherlock pushed him out and closed the door.

The kettle began to whistle. Sherlock walked over and poured a cup of tea. He handed it to John, who accepted it gratefully. "There's no reason to be so hard on Lestrade. Its your brother who has all the coddling issues."

Sherlock grunted. He took off his shirt and pulled off his boots. After sitting down in his chair he reached down and pulled a pipe out of his carpetbag. Lighting it, Sherlock let the tobacco fill his lungs. The sweet nicotine invaded his senses. It truly was the little things.

"You really shouldn't do that." John took another sip of tea.

"You have your way of relaxing and I have mine.

Sherlock contemplated telling John that a light had entered his body; no matter how small it had been. But when he glanced over and saw the bags of exhaustion under his eyes, Sherlock knew that now wasn't the time.  _Later. I'll tell him later._ Sherlock took another puff on his pipe.

John licked his lips. "Well, I thought I would never say it, but I can't wait to leave this island behind."

"Me too."

* * *

 

John washed away the stress of the day. His muscles loosened and he let out a low moan. The bathroom was quickly becoming his favorite place on the airship. He toweled off his hair and brushed it. The soap, a combination of sage and peppermint, left a pleasant smell in his nostrils.

He donned a light shirt, trousers and a pair of suspenders. John sat on his bed and with a precision of years of practice, he cleaned his revolver. He placed it in the nook of his back and smiled at the comforting steel on his skin.

Glancing around the room, he picked up his hat and made his way over to 221B.

Sherlock had also showered. He was dressed in a blood red shirt and trousers that were as black as his hair. John's heart didn't think it could take any more in one day.

"You'd be happy to know that alchemists are already working hard to fix the flora. We're leaving port tonight but everything should be as it was before; other than a trapped spirit and a crazed warlock."

John sighed in relief. "I'm happy we could do some good."

Sherlock stood up and put on his dinner jacket. "Yes, fantastic. Shall we be off? There is an opera on C deck tonight and I thought it might be an enjoyable reprieve."

John smiled. "I do believe that is what the doctor ordered."

Sherlock frowned and John laughed as they made their way out of the cabin.

* * *

 

Dinner had been better than good, and the opera had soothed John's soul. The music had been tragic and preformed so well that even Sherlock couldn't complain. They were both completely content as they made their way back to the cabin.

The Nautilus had left Asmayda an hour before and John was happy that the dirigible was making its way towards England again. He closed the door behind them and gave John a wicked smile. John was slammed up against the door and Sherlock ran his fingers up John's sides and began to unbutton his shirt.

"Tonight was alleviating, but I must admit this was a lingering thought." Sherlock captured John's lips. It was soft and John made sure his reply was just as smoothing; just as needy.

_That's why he's called 'the virgin'._

Mycroft's words played across John's mind. His lips stopped moving and Sherlock pulled away. "What?"

John blushed. "Are you...I mean, have you...?" What an embarrassing question to have to ask. Sherlock frowned at John's bumbling attempts at communication.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me." John brushed his hands along Sherlock's back.

"I am." Sherlock locked onto his eyes.

John gulped. He went down and attached his mouth to Sherlock's neck. John ran his fingers over Sherlock's silk shirt.  _This man is impossible._ He worked gentle kisses up to Sherlock's ear. He nibbled on his lobe before gathering the courage to ask.

"Do you want to be?"


	22. Arch 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have really no excuses for taking so long to update. But please forgive me and enjoy the sex.

"Do you want to be?" The question hung in the air; John still slightly shocked that he had asked it.

Sherlock answered before the question had barely escaped John's lips.

"No."

That was all John needed to hear.

He began to untuck the red shirt from Sherlock's trousers. He let his fingers trace along the inside band. Sherlock left kisses along John's cheek and moved his fingers through John's hair.

Slowly, John moved his hands forward and worked his way up under Sherlock's shirt; he didn't get very far.

"Why do all your shirts have to be so damn tight?" John huffed.

"I've never heard you complain my dear."

John arched an eyebrow. "Ha-ha," He brought his hands down and started to unbuckle Sherlocks's belt. "Fine, I'll just start down here instead."

Sherlock traced his hands down from John's hair, over his neck and took John's suspenders in both hands. He pushed them down and they fell around John's upper arms. He still didn't move his hands from Sherlock's belt.

John snapped open one button.

Sherlock placed a kiss on each piece of skin that was exposed as he opened button after button on John's shirt. He fell down to his knees and John protested as Sherlock worked down on the last remaining buttons. The suspenders slid down John's arms and fell down to hang on his thighs.

John moaned as Sherlock palmed him through his trousers. John clung to Sherlock's hair and pulled, stretching out the tightly curls. Sherlock lowered John's trousers and pants to be able to slid his tongue across John's erection.

John stepped out of his clothes and dragged Sherlock back up so that he was standing in front of him. John's hands fumbled as he quickly rid Sherlock of his trousers and pants. John decided his Sherlock half-clothed. Sherlock's pale skin shone in bright contrast to his shirt. John took a moment to admire the view before him. 

John felt Sherlock squeeze his ass and let out a squeak of surprise; he hadn't been expecting that. "Your bottom half is just as attractive." John grabbed at Sherlock's lower side in retaliation. Sherlock wiggled and John moved an experimental hand down farther and farther.

He tentatively moved a few fingers between Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock hummed against John's chest and moved closer to the man, allowing him better reach. John continued to move tantalizing around Sherlock's entrance; still not touching it directly.

John pushed his thumb up and Sherlock let out a hiss. He latched onto John's neck and pressed his fingers in deep, stoking down to his collarbone. Sherlock wanted to kiss John but he was out of reach. Sometimes he did curse their height difference.

With his face buried in Sherlock's shirt, John inhaled the scent of the tall man before him. Sherlock had the same soap as him in his bathroom, but it was tangled, meshed up smells that could only be associated with Sherlock Holmes. Burn chemicals, sweet tobacco and a hint of musk that was distint only to him.

John moved his hands up and Sherlock whined at the loss of heat. John quickly dipped his hands back down; it had just been too tempting to tease him, if only for a second. John traced his fingers back down; one hand cupped one cheek and the other made its way back farther.

John moved his finger back and forth stroking. He stopped and one finger wiggled up; barely working its way inside of Sherlock. His breathing sped up and there was a fire burning beneath his skin as John continued to take his time exploring Sherlock.

Desperately wanting to touch more skin, Sherlock worked John's shirt off his shoulders. Sherlock feathered his fingers out and moved them down, so that they were pressing up against John's crotch.

Their bodies were so close, that every movement Sherlock pressed against John he could feel mirrored on himself. But Sherlock's thoughts weren't on what his fingers were doing but on how every second that passed, more of John was inside of him; even if it was barely his fingertip.

John groaned at the stimulation to his cock, and that he had finally gotten his finger nearly to its first knuckle. Sherlock was so tight and John was relishing in the feel of it. John pushed in little by little and Sherlock opened to him- until he could go no farther without hurting. It was torture to pull away but John knew that to go any farther they would need something to smooth the way.

John's entire body felt heavy and he no longer wanted to be vertical, even if the door was holding most of their weight. "Sherlock," John let out in a hoarse voice, "maybe we should move to the bed." Sherlock nodded and they made their way over to it; John stopped just long enough to remove Sherlock's shirt. They were both finally rid of all their clothing and it hadn't come fast enough. 

They collapsed in a heap on the bed, and John tried to touch every bit of skin he could with his lips. Sherlock kissed up John's side and his hands fumbled with John's balls. John giggled and batted at Sherlock. It was utter ridiclous and John loved every moment of it. He finally managed to straighten their bodies out and so that John was on top of him.

With a blush, from either exertion or slight embarrassment he asked, "Do you have anything we can use as a lotion?"

Sherlock pointed towards his chemical set. "Clear bottle. Red label."

John walked over to the table. The movement was almost painful with the erection between his legs. He found the bottle quickly, and joined Sherlock back on the bed. "Sherlock, I need you to lay on your stomach."

He wordlessly complied.

John moved his hands up along Sherlock's back and down towards the underside of his thighs. Sherlock shivered and jerked up. John smiled. _Ticklish._ He left Sherlock's legs and worked back up to his ass. John scooted up closer and Sherlock straddled up on John's knees.

Sherlock waited as John put the liquid onto his fingers. He smeared a little on his right cheek and gave it a slap. Sherlock gasped but rubbed himself up and down on John's knees; he was so hard. Finally, John put his finger back into Sherlock's entrance. It glided in easier than Johhn had been expecting. John waited a moment before pulling it out and then repeating the motion. Before Sherlock could complain, John was slipping in the finger again with another one added.

Sherlock's hands fisted in the sheets and he made unintelligible sounds. John took it as a good sign and continued; picking up the pace until the two fingers were completely buried inside Sherlock. He added another finger and John hummed as Sherlock opened up even wider for him. He bent down and kissed Sherlock's back tenderly.

He was near the breaking point. Before John could go any farther, Sherlock pulled away slightly. "What's wrong?" John couldn't see Sherlock's expression as he flipped over. "I am not speaking from experience, however I have done my research and I do believe this will be a more pleasurable position."

John laughed. Of course, Sherlock would be the one to research sex without ever having performed the act. He had to know bloody everything. John was happy that Sherlock had decided to change positions. He loved the thought of watching Sherlock's expressions and see the shape of Sherlock's lips as small gasps escaped from them.

"Please, now."

John glossed up his cock and positioned himself at Sherlock's entrance. The other man lifted up on the soles of his feet and John marveled in the way he was trusted explicitly. John pushed inside tenderly, allowing only the smallest bit of him to enter Sherlock.

Sherlock pushed down and the head of John's cock slipped inside him. He adjusted to the alien feeling easily and thrust his hips down deeper. John experienced a sensory overload as Sherlock took control. Sherlock was propped up on his elbows and John watched as beads of sweat slid down his lovers chest.

John was almost half way in him and Sherlock adjusted his hips. "Oh!" Every movement was bringing John closer to a climax. His fingers slipped over Sherlock's chest and John brushed his knuckles against Sherlock's erection; he slipped in farther.

John wrapped himself around Sherlock's cock and flicked his fingernail along Sherlock's head. He groaned and pulled himself away from John; before moving back down again. John took his free hand and traced a path along the taller man's thighs, stopping only to stroke Sherlock's balls.

Sherlock continued his back and forth motion, having achieved all of John being inside him. "Ah! Yes!" Sherlock moaned in a clipped voice as John brushed up occasionally on his prostate. John's hands followed the motion of Sherlock, speeding up and slowing; keeping in perfect tune.

The pace sped up and John knew that Sherlock was approaching his climax. John could feel Sherlock's muscles clinch up around him. John tried to hold on but he felt his stomach muscles tighten. "I'm going to.." Before he could finish his declaration, Sherlock unravelled in John's palm.

John watched with lust filled eyes as Sherlock spilled all over his chest. John pushed in harder and harder; forgetting it was the other man's first time. Sherlock didn't raise a word of complaint as he allowed John to fill him completely, John let out a cry and kept his eyes open for as long as he could. The orgasm encompassed him, and it felt so good to release. John heard as Sherlock's name escaped his lips in a husky cry.

John collapsed next to Sherlock and pulled him closer. He kissed Sherlock on the shoulder and felt contentment like he rarely had before. Sherlock's breathing returned to its regular tempo. John wanted to tell Sherlock how much it had meant to him to be given something so precious. He knew that Sherlock didn't have to, but that he had given himself so fully; John was torn between words of gratitude and awe.

"I never thought it would feel like that." Sherlock spoke before John could gather his courage. He saw a cloud of doubt cover the doctor's features and Sherlock clarified. "I never dreamed that a person could take me so completely, make me know so much about myself." Sherlock let out a shuddering breath. "I sound like a fool." He kissed John's forehead. "This only happens when events include you, John."

John blushed. "I love you too. You idiot."

Sherlock rolled an arm under John's body and held him to tighter. "I do hope the remainder of the trip is more resting." John cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock's unusual words.

"That doesn't sound like you Sherlock." John was rewarded with the feeling of Sherlock's chest rising and falling as he let a rumble of laughter. "No, it doesn't. Then again, I have never had to deal with having all my energy being sapped out of me like that before."


	23. Arch 23

The next few days were spent in blissful reprieve. John learned more about Sherlock than he would have ever thought possible. Everyday was a study in anatomy and what could bring the other person to a quicker, fuller release. Thinking back, John was sure he had only put on trousers once to talk to Lestrade. The DI had been so embarrassed he had only talked to John for a few minutes before making excuses and hurrying away.

"John."

"Mmm?"

John was sprawled out on the bed writing in his journal. Sherlock was tinkering around with another one of his experiments. He had donned a robe and John missed the sight of his skin...but John understood; the threat of burns and such. The man at the table put down the bottle he had been examining under a light.

"I want you to contact Mycroft when you arrive to England." Sherlock didn't turn around to face John and instead talked to the bottle on the bottle he had just been holding.

There were multiple parts of the sentence that John noticed were wrong. Firstly, he had called his brother by name, secondly..."Why did you just say 'you'?" John didn't like the way that sounded, as if John would be arriving at their destination alone. "Sherlock, is something the matter?"

Sherlock remained unmoving. "Apologies. When  _we_ arrive in England."

John wanted to ask about the other issue he had with the sentence but John realized that maybe he shouldn't push Sherlock in the matter. Everything was finally settling down to a steady pace - did it seem important to ruin it for such a simple slip. Did it?

John continued to write in his journal, from the corner of his eye John saw that Sherlock had not moved. "Sherlock?"

"You haven't promised me yet."

"Fine, yes. I promise."

The gears that had paused turned back into motion and Sherlock resumed his work. John turned back to his writings, but with an extra mindful eye on Sherlock.

* * *

John took another sip of brandy. It was of the finest grade and it slipped down his throat with a smooth burning sensation. He couldn't believe what he was doing. With a heavy feeling in his stomach, John had decided to consult Detective Inspector Gregson Lestrade on the enigma that was Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. John had a notion that the relationship Lestrade and Mycroft shared might resemble the one that he and Sherlock were now in. Although how the detective and government official could have ever gotten together was a complete and utter mystery to John.

Lestrade had more color to him and John was happy to see that the calm atmosphere had also done some good to the detective's constitution. John felt a pang of guilt when he realized he had caused the innocent man so much worry over the last couple of weeks.

Lestrade took a sip of his whiskey. "That does sound strange."

John had just told the DI what Sherlock had said the night before.

He sighed. "I'm probably worrying more than I should...but so much has happened." John took another gulp of brandy. "After what I said to Mycroft, I can't believe I'm doing this."

"I understand." Lestrade smiled knowingly. "It's like being caught in a whirlwind, and when you ask a question you're left with the feeling that you should have 'just known'."

John looked out of one of the large bay windows. It was a beautiful day; clouds drifting along in a crystal blue sky. He wished he could enjoy it more. John hated to think that Sherlock would keep anything from him. Hadn't he shown himself to be a trustworthy person?

"You have to trust him." Lestrade had started again after a slight pause. "If it makes you feel any better, Mycroft replaced the captain during the Nautilus' sabbatical at the island."

"Captain Martin?"

"Yes, Mycroft found out that he had been helping Moriarty. It is amazing how easily that man can take control of a situation." Lestrade smile looked like a grimace as he eyed his brandy.

 _Ahh._ John thought to himself. He could see the attraction. A man who could do what he wanted with a confidence that left a trail behind. John nodded. Lestrade had never stood a chance against the man. He hoped Gregson's Holmes would be easier to understand than his own; he doubted it.

John's mouth moved of its own accord. "I must admit I'm impressed. I didn't think that Mycroft Holmes was one to enter into a relationship." The words from the Morse paper echoed in his mind.  _Guard Your Emotions._

"Not that. More he trusts himself to make a decision without emotions clouding them unlike his baby brother. Even with a 'significant other' in the picture. Mr. Holmes has, this is in his brother's word not mine, 'Sherlock allows his emotions to cloud his judgement', not always mind you, but on some of the important issues. The personal ones." Lestrade raised his glass at John in a mock salute.

John knew what he meant, but that didn't mean he believed him. "I can't believe Mycroft told you that."

"I think he told me so that I would warn you if you asked." Lestrade's eyes looked sad. "He thought you wouldn't shoot this messenger."

* * *

Sherlock placed a bookmark in his novel as John walked back into their cabin. Sherlock had been acting odd. He was acting cool, collected like he ususally was but John sensed something underlying it. That it was all a facade in place for his benefit.

He covered the distance to Sherlock and got on his knees. John took the book from him and leaned his head against Sherlock's knees. He took in a deep breath before asking the question one more time. "Sherlock, is something the matter?"  _If there is, for the love of god, please tell me._ John waited motionless.

Sherlock said nothing as he bent down and kissed the top of John's head. His arms came up and placed themselves on John's shoulders. Sherlock squeezed them and then his hands to slip down farther, brushing up against his shoulder blades. Sherlock began to massage John's back.

"John." Sherlock breathed out.

Even though Sherlock had groaned, moaned, screamed and cried out his name countless times over the last fews days, his voice, even in a whisper, never ceased to send a shiver down to John's groin. John leaned into the touch and his hands moved to part Sherlock's legs.

John placed himself between Sherlocks thighs. He was crouched in front of the man who had become his everything in so short a time. Sherlock Holmes was his lover, companion, friend and soon to be flatmate. John realized with a crushing pressure that if he lost Sherlock...he would lose everything.

He placed his mouth over Sherlock's thigh and bit down. Harder than he should have but John didn't care. For some reason, he felt that this gesture would convey more to Sherlock than words ever could. Sherlock gasped as his thigh was dug into with a painful pressure.

John brought his hand up and rubbed it over Sherlock's groin. Sherlock hissed as John's hand pressed and rubbed over his erection. He still hadn't let go of Sherlock's thigh with his teeth. Sherlock took his hands from John's back and groped for John's left hand.

Although he missed the heat on his groin, Sherlock felt the need to return the gesture. He kissed each of John's digits and licked a circle around his thumb. Sherlock placed John's upper wrist in his mouth and bit down. John stopped his action on Sherlock's thigh and drew in a sharp breath.

Sherlock's teeth ground into his skin. John almost told him to stop but thought better of it. Instead, he decided to stroke his mouth up and down on Sherlock's cock through the light material of his robe as Sherlock continued to mark him.

John revealed in the sensation of Sherlock's tongue gliding over his pulse; his tongue danced over his veins. Sherlock moved his mouth back to the spot he had bit and started to suck on it.

John fumbled at opening Sherlock's robe.  _Why does he have to tie this thing so bloody tight?_ John finally undid the knot and moved his tongue down at the base; he quickly licked his way to the top and gently dragged his teeth along Sherlock's head.

Sherlock moaned and with one final kiss gave John's hand back to him. John didn't bother to inspect the bruise that was surely already starting to form; the only thing that deserved his attention at the moment was Sherlock.

John sensed an uneasiness in Sherlock. It wasn't a pleasant feeling and he hoped it would pass. John quickened his motions but Sherlock stopped him with a hand grabbing at his short blond hair.

"John, please. Stand up." John gave Sherlock's cock one final lick before he stood up to his full height. Sherlock made quick work of John's suit.

Sherlock hummed deep in his chest. "John, bring your chair over in front of you."

John raised his eyebrow, but did as he was told.

"I want you to lean over, with your back side to me." John's mind wandered to what Sherlock was suggesting- what was about to happen. He gripped the arms with his backside facing Sherlock. He tried not to think about how he was exposed; instead he waited in patient exhilaration. John heard Sherlock sit back down in his chair.

John gasped as Sherlock's mouth glanced over the soft skin of John's inner thigh. He brushed up against the part where skin became John's ass; feather light kisses placed all over. There was a warm exhalation that tickled his balls. Sherlock trailed up and John let the deliciousness of the situation engulf him.

Sherlock used his thumb and pointer to separate him, and John moaned as he felt a hot tongue kiss him. Sherlock's tongue made slow, lazy circles and then mouthed up and down. Not being satisfied, his tongue worked its way into John.

John's hands gripped into the arms of the chair. He pushed up against Sherlock's mouth and gritted his teeth, not wanting to suffocate the man. "Fuck. Sherlock." He wanted to say more, but there really didn't seem anymore that needed to be said.

Sherlock brought a finger to join his tongue. Unbelievably, John could feel the cool liquid of lotion on Sherlock's finger. Obvious, Sherlock had been waiting for him. It made John moan. Sherlock easily slipped in and John's hips moved, trying to engulf more of his long slender finger. John hoped Sherlock's hands would trace up against and in him, treating him tenderly like his violin; John knew he was begging to be played.

Another finger eased in and Sherlock brought them up at the knuckle inside John. He searched for a moment and was rewarded with a gasp from John when he found his quarry. John's hips moved back and forward, unraveling in the motion of Sherlock fingering him.

John's erection thumped against his stomach. He could feel pre-cum pooling at the tip of it and it caused his cock to slip ever so easily over him. "God, that is amazing." The words could barely escape through John's hoarse throat.

Sherlock shifted, standing up. He took his fingers out of John and grabbed both of John's hips. Without missing a beat, John brought his hips up again as Sherlock thrust down into him.

When John had penetrated Sherlock it had always been soft and sweet; this was rough and sudden. Without much warning, all of Sherlock was buried in John. Luckily, John had more experience than Sherlock and so he was able to understand the taller man's actions almost before he had committed them.

John let out a soft groan. He stood on tipped toes trying to take even more of Sherlock inside him. After giving John a second to adjust, Sherlock began to pound into him. John returned the movement with the same amount of enthusiasm.

"Sherlock. Urg...touch me." No matter how much John ached to touch his own cock he couldn't. If he moved an arm, he would go smashing face first into the chair. Sherlock's hand lightly glided over John's cock. Instead of relieving him, the touch was so light that it made John frustrated for more.

Sherlock began to bump up against his prostate. Suddenly, John forgot about all about external factors and thought of only what Sherlock was doing inside of him. He thumped up against him; John quickened the motion and before he could stop himself, he was coming.

"Sherlock...!"

With a few more well placed thrusts, Sherlock came. The orgasm rocked though his body and Sherlock's fingertips dug deeper into John's hips. 

"John." When Sherlock called out his name, it was a whisper. It sent shivers down from John's toes, up to his head. He had never heard his name spoken with such reverence before; like a prayer.

John slowly disconnected from Sherlock and collapsed into the chair before him. Sherlock bent down and licked the cum from John's stomach. John hummed and brushed his hand into Sherlock's curls.

"John, come to bed."

Sherlock offered his hand and John took it. John dropped into bed and Sherlock covered him with a sheet before getting into bed also. John placed his head on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock was stroking his hand through John's hair. He tugged at his ear and Sherlock's fingers glanced over his neck. John wanted to return the favor but all he could do was fan his hand out on Sherlock's chest. John loved the feel of sweat on his lover's skin. He finally saw the bruise slightly above his wrist; it was quite impressive.

Sleep began to envelope John. He welcomed it gladly. As he drifted off, John heard Sherlock alternating between saying John's name and "I love you". John wanted to reply, but he didn't have the energy to even move his lips.

If John had known it would be the last time he could have told Sherlock  _I love you_ , nothing would have stopped him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how long ago I wrote this...it is amazing to see how my writing style has evolved.


	24. Arch 24

When John awoke, he was surprised to find himself alone in bed. It wasn't like Sherlock to go off without having told him first where he was going. John got out of bed, dressed, and made a cup of tea. It was only after three hours had passed, that John began to worry.

_I'm being totally irrational. Sherlock will be back soon._ Another half an hour passed and John found that all he could do was stare at the wall and count the patterns on the wallpaper. John huffed.  _Maybe he went out to have a cigarette._ John rationalized that it wasn't the fact that he was alone, but more the fact that he didn't know where Sherlock had run off to that was bothering to tell him.

John never got farther than putting his jacket on, when the door opened to cabin 221B. Sherlock came in with a flurry; he removed his coat and threw it on the ground. Without so much as a glance at John, he sat down to his chemicals. Sherlock put his goggles on, and began to mutter to himself as he measured out a liquid.

John sighed internally, but he was relieved to see Sherlock.  _Why was I so worried about him? Like he had gone some place that I couldn't follow..._ He shrugged away the thought and picked up Sherlock's discarded clothes.  _We might need a housekeeper once we return to London._

This sent a happy jolt through John. While it was true that his life had changed over the last month, it was soon to change again and with Sherlock permanently by his side. John was thrilled with the idea.

Now that Sherlock was securely back with him, John finally noticed the rumble in his belly. He almost asked Sherlock to accompany him, but thought better of it.

"I'll be back in a few." John donned his cap and threw on his jacket. He was only slightly surprised when Sherlock didn't even wave his hand in farewell.

* * *

John quietly sipped at his coffee. He hadn't had the opportunity to read the Morse news in the last few days, so he took his time; even reading the columns he normally wouldn't. After a few minutes of reading the news, he was reminded why he skipped certain parts.

It had been more than six months since he had left the war front but it occasionally came to the forefront of his mind. He thought of the comrades he had left behind. What his unit was doing. John had contemplated staying in touch, but in the end decided it was a wiser choice to divorce himself from it completely.

**'Casualty Count in the Hundred Thousands and Rising'**

John closed the paper in disgust. What were they even fighting for? It was all relative. What did men fight and die for? Property? Wealth? Love? John had yet to die for any of them but he had killed for them. He swallowed the last of his coffee rather too quickly as his lunch arrived.

* * *

Sherlock was in the same spot that John had left him. However, the room was fogged with a white smoke. "Sherlock! You can't do this in the cabins!" John waved his hand around and gave a light cough. Sherlock ignored him. John was getting annoyed; he didn't normally like be ignored-especially when it was constantly.

"I'm going to my cabin. Call me when this infernal smoke is gone." John opened the door to 221A and closed the door behind him.

Once it was closed, John leaned up against the door.  _What in the world is wrong with Sherlock?_ He had seen the man quiet before, but never like this. Maybe he was upset over something? John didn't have the vaguest idea of what it could be.

John found the one medical journal that had not made its way to Sherlock's cabin. John opened it at an article he had only half-finished and began to read.

* * *

With a start, John woke when a snore got caught in his throat. It was still light out. He looked over at the clock near his bed. He had only dosed for a few minutes. John stood up and stretched out his legs. Tentatively, he made his way over to the adjoining door.

The air had cleared up. John looked around the room and was surprised to see Sherlock laid out on the bed fast asleep. John let out a sigh. He walked over to Sherlock and fondly gazed at his prone figure.  _You can be so insufferable at times._ He gently placed the duvet over Sherlock and placed a kiss on his forehead.

John jerked upward. He wiped the back of his hand over his lips. Sherlock had felt cold...almost like a corpse. His left hand searched for Sherlock's pulse. After a tense couple of seconds, John could feel it thumping under his two fingers. After closer inspection, John heard the quiet inhale and exhale of breath from Sherlock's prone form.

John closed his eyes and grimaced.  _Now I'm acting like a mother hen too._ But what a strong feeling it had been- that Sherlock wasn't alive. That somehow, this Sherlock before him...wasn't Sherlock.

John almost asked the aether to inspect him, but thought better of it. The last thing he wanted to explain to Sherlock, if he woke up in the middle of it, was that John had been unsure who he was.

He shook his head.  _I'll go to the library. Maybe some more medical reading will calm me down._ John laughed. Some medical journals never failed to put him to sleep; better than any sleeping pills he had ever tried.

John closed the front door behind him after closing the door to his cabin.

Sherlock slightly opened one eyelid to watch the retreating figure of John Watson.

* * *

"Sir, the library will be closing in a few minutes."

John wiped the sleep out of his eyes. Sure enough he had dosed off again. This time longer than a few minutes. Still, he had caught up on some of the studying he had meant to do on the long trip. Having been with Sherlock had quickly erased all intentions of studying. John had barely jotted down one note since the journey's beginning.

He stretched out and checked out one of the more fascinating journals.

John knocked quietly on the cabin door to 221B.  _What am I doing?_ John hadn't knocked on the door even when he and Sherlock hadn't been on intimate terms. He turned the door knob and walked in.

Sherlock was once again paying all his attention to his chemistry set. John hadn't know before that moment, that it was possible to be jealous of an inanimate object. Not allowing it to bother him  _too_ much, John walked over to Sherlock. "So, how's the experiment going?"

Sherlock glanced up at him. His lips were drawn in a thin line and his brow was furrowed...John got the distinct feeling that Sherlock had been ignoring him on purpose. Sherlock looked at him for another moment before saying, "Fine." and leaned back over his experiment again.

John was torn between all the emotions he was feeling. Anger finally won out. He let out a slow breath-it wasn't calming in the least. "Sherlock, are you in a position to stop?" John was promptly ignored. "I said, are you in a position to stop?" He was very proud that he hadn't shouted but his tone was still raising quickly.

"Can you survive one day without needing to bother me?"

The words pierced John harder than he thought they would. Now he was debating on whether to smash the vials or Sherlock's face. Realizing that neither was the best choice, John straightened his back and walked out of 221B, back into his cabin. At the very least, John took pleasure in slamming the door harder than necessary.

* * *

The next day passed in a blur. He wanted to go and talk to Sherlock but his pride refused to let him be the first one to speak. He half-heartedly ate his breakfast. After that he admired the view outside on the deck...not that he was waiting for Sherlock to come out for a cigarette. John lounged in the library and then ate a full lunch; with three gin and tonics to wash it down.

As John ate his dinner alone, he laughed harshly at himself. It was the first time in almost two weeks that he had actually eaten all three meals that make up an average day.

John realized bitterly that he hated average days.

He made his way back to the cabins after less than restful dinner. His entire body felt like a heavy weight. He didn't even bother knocking on Sherlock's door; John just went straight back to his own cabin. John extinguished the lamp at the side of his bed. He had forgotten how cold a bed could feel when there was only one occupant.

* * *

John stared at the door to 221B.  _I'm not going to apologize, I just don't like this silence._ After ignoring Sherlock for the whole day and getting ignored in return, John couldn't take it any more. Even if it started with shouting, he hoped it would end on them being on friendlier terms. The silence was driving him to madness.

John opened the door. Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, changing. He was closing his dressing gown after a shower. John swallowed hard. He closed the door behind him.

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

In what was quickly becoming a common sight, Sherlock ignored him and bent down closer to his chemistry table. John made his way over to him and grabbed his left hand.

"Sherlock. stop ignoring me!" He hadn't meant to yell (at least not yet) but he couldn't help himself. His self-control had been rubbed too thin.

Sherlock stared blankly at him. John was shocked to see no emotions. Sherlock's face was like a marble statue; cold and unmoving. John got onto his knees and grabbed for Sherlock's other hand.

Both his hands covered the long thin hands of his lover. John stroked one with his thumb. "Please, tell me what's wrong. You've barely spoken a word to me in almost two days." John heard his voice crack the littlest bit, but he didn't care.

Sherlock stared down at him. John couldn't look up at his face; if John was honest, he was afraid to see what  _wouldn't_ be reflected in those eyes.

"John, you are being childish."

He felt Sherlock's hands snake themselves out from John's grip. John tried to keep them in his grasp and that make Sherlock jerk back from him. The motion caused Sherlock's robe to open ever so slightly. John tried not to look but he did anyways. He stared at Sherlock's pale upper thigh. John's heart stopped.

There was no bruise. There was no bruise. There was  _no bruise._

John sprung up onto his feet and backed away from the man he had thought was Sherlock. As a medical man, who knew there was no way a bruise that deep could have healed completely in only two days. There wasn't even a soft green tinge anywhere; it was just as pale as the rest of the skin on his thigh.

"Who are you?" John wished desperately that his gun wasn't locked away in the dresser of his own cabin.

Sherlock didn't raise from his chair and only stared hard at John. The man who looked like Sherlock finally shut his eyes and exhaled a long breath. His eyes opened lazily; the only emotion filling them now was hate. Such hate as John had never seen.

"Now, tell me Doctor, how are we going to fix this?"

John gritted his teeth. "Tell me where the real Sherlock is this instant!" He would get the information and then rip the fake to pieces.

Sherlock smiled. It would have fit better on the face of a monster. "I am afraid, the only thing I am going to do is kill you."

 


	25. Arch 25

 

 

 

 

 

Rage surged through John's veins. How dare this  _thing_ impersonate Sherlock? How had he ever been fooled? John took his rage and used it to summon the aether. There was no one to stop him now. It was going to die...John was going to make damn sure of that fact.

All these thoughts happened in a split second. The green sparked from his fingers as the fake Sherlock pounced forward. John was ready and dodged. Sherlock's fingers dug into the door. As it removed them, shards of wood dislodged and splintered. The man that looked like Sherlock's fingertips were knurled but no blood came from them. 

John threw his aether at Sherlock but it was dodged easily. It blasted the wall and a charcoal spot spread out over the perfect wallpaper. John swerved so that he didn't collide with Sherlock's chemistry table. The fake Sherlock moved like lightning. Before his eyes could trace him, Sherlock had taken a chunk of cloth from John's shirt.

Another blast of aether jumped from John; this time hitting its target. It hit Sherlock directly in the chest. The fake Sherlock lost its balance but quickly regained it. John saw with horror the damage he had done. Both robe and skin had been melted off to reveal...

"Gears?" John stared in open wonder.

The robotic-like Sherlock creaked its neck and smiled. "Yes, good doctor. Gears. You were tricked by simple machinery and a bit of alchemy." He released a hollow laugh. "You will never see Sherlock again. Like a fool he threatened Moriarty, and he fell."

"Fell?" John could see his vision wavering.

"Down and down he went." Sherlock leaped forward and pinned John to the wall. John could feel metal grinding into his upper arms. "No amount of doctoring will fix him now." The fake Sherlock squeezed and John felt his right arm being crushed under his grip. John let out a howl of pain.

Slowly, darkness began to cloud John's vision.  _What's the point? Sherlock is...dead? He can't be...but..._ The aether struggled to fight back, but John didn't have the will to let it. John closed his eyes.

Then there came a crash. A familiar voice yelled out "Release him!" John opened his eyes and was astonished to see it was Lestrade. The door was hanging loose on its hinges. Lestrade had his Akari aimed at the back of Sherlock.

Sherlock's head turned to face the new threat. It let out a hiss and let John go; bounding towards Lestrade. The DI fired off two rounds and the light struck Sherlock where its heart should have been. Sherlock continued to advance on him as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade by his jacket with one hand, and swatted the Akari away with its other. "I will break your neck for that." Sherlock raised Lestrade up; both hands wrapped around his neck. John watched the scene with bile rising in his throat.

John let out a howl. His head almost burst with the intensity of it; he had finally tapped into the full potential of the aether. His body was engulfed with a green light. His hair whipped around and John could feel his clothes dissolving.

With a swipe of one hand, he batted Sherlock away from Lestrade. Sherlock slammed into the side of the bed. It collapsed into a heap. John walked towards Sherlock, but it felt more as if his body were floating. John's toes barely grazed the carpet.

Lestrade had been knocked unconscious. John lips curled. He hadn't wanted the detective to see what he was about to do to this...this  _abomination._  The machine was raising its hands to rip at John; with the aether, John held both of its arms to its body.

He began to squeeze. John could hear the aether cheering him on.  _Tighter. Just a bit tighter. TIGHTER!_ John crushed the energy around Sherlock, and with a sicking snap, its head lolled to one side. Still, it smiled at John.

It only mouthed, "You can't kill me." John had crushed its audio circuts.

Its arms flayed at John, but neither reached its mark. The aether slithered into Sherlock's gaping mouth. John watched as the aether destroyed the fake Sherlock from the inside out. Light poured through the cracks it broke in its eyes; nose. The energy burst into its joints, ripping it apart slowly.

John stood over the broken body. The aether slowly drew back into John. Unlike last time, John was able to control the aether; even though it had extended its reach further than before.

John needed to find the real Sherlock.

He checked Lestrade's pulse. It was light but regular. Bending down, John realized he was almost naked. He grabbed the coat that he had taken off and put it on. He didn't have time to change, so John only buttoned it up. John winced. His arm was broken. The adrenaline dulled his pain.  _I must make a sight._ He didn't care if people stared, he just needed to not be stopped.

John tried to think where Sherlock would have gone. Somewhere that he and Moriarty could have had a...showdown. John gulped. He just couldn't believe that Sherlock had gone without him. But what else was he suppose to believe?

John dashed over to Sherlock's chemistry set. He had no idea what he was looking for. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the book that the real Sherlock had been reading last. It was still on the side table next to his chair. John fingered through it. Finding nothing, he shook it violently upside down.

A small folded paper fell out.

John groped at it. He slowly opened it.

John,

I am so sorry that it had to come to this. It was never my intention to hurt you.

Our time together has meant more than words can say.

Please do not hold it against me, confronting Moriarty alone.

I could not risk losing you.

I love you.

Now and always yours,

Sherlock

John re-read the letter. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. John refused to believe it. If he could figure out the puzzle, he would find Sherlock. Sherlock, who would be laughing at him asking, "John, what took you so long?" He would smile, having defeated Moriarty. They would embrace.

Everything would be fine.

"He's gone."

John's head whipped around to face Lestrade. He was rubbing at his neck. John stared at him, uncomprehending. "What?" John whispered.

"There was a change in air pressure in one of the upper decks. The repair crew checked and there was a escape hatch that had been opened. There was blood and some scraps of clothing. They called me in. Mycroft contacted me...John it was Sherlock. He...I think he and Moriarty..."

Tears began to trace a path down John's face.  _It can't be true. No. No!_ John crushed the note in his hand and threw it. "I don't believe you." He had meant to yell, but it came out as a strained whisper.

"John, please." Lestrade coughed. "He's gone."

John ran past Lestrade. John didn't heed the DI's attempts to yell after him.

* * *

John searched another upper deck. This time he found one of the stains Lestrade had spoken of. There were also scuffs on the floor and one gash in the wall.  _How could Sherlock have done this? He was here for almost two days and ignored me...didn't need my help?_ Suddenly, the pain in his broken arm flooded into his system.

John screamed. His whole body collapsed around him. His legs were like jelly and his arm sent shooting pains through him. John slowed his breathing. Sobs began to surge through his body and overflowed so powerfully that John couldn't have stopped even if he had tried. He cradled his arm to his chest.

That's when John saw it. Amongst all his other wounds, there was the bruise on his wrist. The only scar on his body that he welcomed it, needed it. He pressed his lips to it kissing it softly. A now familiar pain wrapped around his heart and he bit down. John plunged his teeth in until he tasted blood. It barely tinted his lips; copper tasting and warm.

He let the grief wrap around him. It was like a lead weight settling into his heart. It was true. Sherlock was gone. He and Moriarty had fallen off of the Nautilus. Fallen down, to be swallowed up by the Atlantic Ocean.

How long he stayed up there, unmoving John had no idea-time had ceased to exist in his world. John sat up. He groaned with pain; stiff muscles protesting. Holding his right arm to his chest, John stumbled up onto his knees. Slowly, he stood up. John wavered but quickly righted himself. He looked out the window. It was a gorgeous sight. John couldn't believe that underneath him was the watery grave of his lover.

He wanted to believe so desperately that Sherlock was alive. He had trusted him; believed in him. But in the end he had been abandoned. John Watson was always alone.

* * *

There were officers swarming the cabin of 221B when John finally returned. Lestrade was sitting in a chair and impatiently swatting away a Medi-Bot. Lestrade caught sight of him and the way he was clutching his arm. The detective sent the bot over to examine John. Its mechanical claws reached out for John.

John's skin crawled.  _Its just a Medi-Bot. Just a Medi-Bot._  The feeling of cold steel touching his skin was enough to cause his entire body to break out in goosebumps. The bot cut up his jacket. John hissed.

John stood still as the bot fixed him with a sling. Once the bot was done, Lestrade stood up and approached John. He didn't make eye contact. John gritted his teeth. "How much did you know?"

Lestrade sighed. "Nothing. I was coming to talk to you. That's when I caught you and the fake Sherlock together." The detective's eyes lingered over to the pile that had once resembled Sherlock. "I've never see such a flawless piece of work. A machine being so lifelike..."

"If it was Moriarty, then I don't find it that hard to believe." John bit his lip to fight back the new onslaught of tears that threatened to spill over again. "I'll be in my cabin." Before he went back to 221A, John walked over to the crumpled bit of paper he had thrown on the floor earlier and picked it up.

* * *

With one hand, John scrubbed the grime off his body. Everywhere the  _thing_ that touched him. Even if it had been over his clothes. John wanted every semblance of its existence erased off him.

John's tears continued to fall. How could it be that that  _imitation_  had been the last thing resembling Sherlock to touch him. John closed his eyes and the horrible mingled sight of a Sherlock with a twisted expression bending over a broken Sherlock kept flashing through his mind.

Had they skinned Sherlock to fit it over that machine? Had they infused him with a magic concoction so that his skin wouldn't rot off the fake Sherlock's gears.  _This is completely irrational!_ John ground his palm into his right eye. No matter how hard he ground, the image wouldn't leave him.

* * *

For the next three days, until the Nautilus finally docked, John didn't get out of bed. He had bathed, shaved, and changed into his pajamas with a vacant stare on that first day. Lestrade brought him tea and food, but John just sipped at the tea and nibbled at the food. He had refused to speak a word to Lestrade.

The day the airship docked, John accepted the situation. Lestrade entered the cabin with John's morning tea and toast on a tray. He placed the tray down.

"Gregson, I want to take Sherlock's violin with me." John croaked out the words. His throat sore from lack of use.

Lestrade nodded.

John continued in a flat, dead voice. "I'm going to Sherlock's apartment. Ask Mycroft where it is will you." Lestrade nodded again; too afraid to speak and startle John. "If Mycroft will allow me, I'd like to live there. We..." John's voice broke off.

John let out a shuddering breath. "I had plans to live there and that is what I'm going to do." John finally met the detective's eyes, daring him to contradict him. Lestrade only nodded but he grabbed John's hand and gave it a light touch. Lestrade gave him one final look and left the cabin.

John sipped at his tea. He placed it down on the tray and stood up. His legs swayed under him; John gripped at the chair Lestrade had frequented so often the last few days. John slowed his spinning head and grabbed his cane. It was the first time he actually used it for its intended purpose.

He stumbled to their adjoining door and swung it open. He took his cane from the wall, and wobbled over to the singed chair. Everything in the cabin had been boxed away. The burn mark was gone from the wall and the bed had been repaired.

John spotted the violin case laying on the top of Sherlock's bed. John threw his cane aside and picked up the violin case. His strength left him, and John fell onto the bed. He let out a groan as his broken arm touched the bed.

John tightened his grip and brought the case up to his chest. John cried until there was nothing left.

 


	26. Arch 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the angst.

John stood in front of the door to 221B Baker street.

John chuckled at how ironic it was.  _Of course the git's address is 221B._ John took a deep breath in and promptly coughed. London air had not improved since he had been away.

Thankfully, Mycroft had had all of John's things delivered. With his right arm now in a sling and his left hand gripping his cane, John could barely hold onto the violin case. He had refused to let it out of his sight. It felt like an anchor in a storm that John could still not weather.

He steeled himself and knocked on the door. He had been pleasantly surprised when Mycroft had told him that Sherlock had employed a housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson. She was a charming older woman.

"Here, deary, hand me that case." She held out her hand but John recoiled from it.

"Thank you. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather carry it."

John was almost used to the sad look he would get from people. Mycroft, Lestrade and now Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't like he carried it around everywhere, but when he did have it, John preferred that only he touched it.

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. "I've made you a nice fire. Now, go sit yourself down and I'll make a pot of tea. I've got some scones warming up now."

She was away in a flurry of skirts. John smiled. Baker street was very nice. He made his way to the sitting room. It had been recently cleaned.  _Sherlock must have been in Canada for quite a while._ John remembered how Sherlock said he hated cleaning. 'Dust can leave a trail for a criminal to blunder into, clean surfaces...' John placed the violin case down gingerly and sat down.

The fire felt fantastic. It was now December and John could barely believe how cold it had become. There were a few decorations in the room. A bit of garland and a small tree. John was sure that was all Sherlock would have allowed.

John felt his heart clench.

 _Maybe this wasn't such a good idea...when I look around, all I can see is him._ But maybe John liked it that way? The memories were bitter sweet (and filled with regrets) but it was better than feeling nothing. Wiping the slate clean of Sherlock all together, was something John couldn't even contemplate.

* * *

He and Mrs. Hudson exchanged small gifts on Christmas. She gave him a pair of gloves and John gave her the best remedy he could find for her bad hip, a bottle of Mr. Gin's cream. It was a quiet affair and Lestrade was the only guest; he dropped by for a only few minutes.

He and John had gone out for a beer or two, but with Sherlock gone there was no real reason to keep up a more constant relationship. Even though it was true that Lestrade acted as a liaison between Mycroft and him, there had been little information to convey.

"I wish you would have come to Christmas eve dinner." Lestrade took a sip of his sherry.

John smiled warily. "I appreciate the invitation, but I really have no business being there."

Lestrade nodded in understanding. The DI looked like he wanted to add more but he kept it to himself. John was grateful for the silence. 

* * *

Winter had began to thaw and John was finally able to feel the full use of his fingers again. He had opened up a small practice inside the sitting room for consultations. His arm was still in a sling, but had healed enough that it allowed him to examine patients if the illness wasn't too serious. Occasionally, he worked at the hospital but John rather liked working from home.

It was only possible because Mycroft had given him a large sum of money. At first John had refused to take it, but then Mycroft had finally told John the "truth".

"It was intended for Sherlock's widow."

"What?"

Mycroft took a deep breath. "Mother was never sure if he would marry, but if he did, she was sure that he would never leave enough for funeral expenses. His lifestyle, as it were. Since you are the closest he ever got to a 'wife' I deemed that it should go to you."

John was flabbergasted. Slightly flattered; and annoyed. John finally relented when Mycroft refused to back down. Mostly, John agreed because if didn't take the money he would have had to leave 221B for cheaper accommodations soon. A situation that John didn't even want to begin to imagine.

Mycroft never told John it was all a lie. There was no money for Sherlock's widow. Mycroft had known John couldn't afford Baker street for very much longer, so he decided to share some of the money he earned. Having a 'minor' position in the British government did have its perks.

* * *

It was another restless night stuck inside. Wind and rain pounded against the windows. John remembered the storm that had accompanied the air pirates. John stared unblinking into the fire until the light stung his eyes.

It wasn't that he was trying to forget Sherlock. More, that he was exhausted from having everything remind him of Sherlock. See the sugar on the table?  _Sherlock took two sugars with his tea._ A man that was too thin?  _Sherlock should have ate more._ The opera is in town?  _Sherlock always loved a good opera._ Would you like to attend a ball?  _Sherlock was such a graceful dancer._

Sometimes, even though it made him slightly ill, John would smoke a cigarette. The smell of tobacco reminded him of Sherlock too. There was a beautifully carved pipe that John had found. He would have loved to have seen it touch Sherlocks lips. John took the pipe out of its case and displayed it on the mantelpiece.

John's eyes wandered from the pipe to Sherlock's violin case. With hesitant hands. John unclasped it. He always kept it propped against his chair. John looked down at the violin.

 _It must be horribly out of tune._ John wasn't ever sure if that happened to violins; like pianos that had been ignored for too long.  _You're sad, aren't you? No one to touch you anymore...to play you, making sweet music._ John knew he wasn't just thinking of the violin now.

With tentative hands, he lifted the violin out of its case. He turned it over, inspecting it. John took out the violin bow and without thinking, he placed the violin in the crook of his neck. His arm had almost healed completely. Four months was about all it took to heal a broken arm. Well, one cracked in a few different places.

 _What am I doing?_ He let out a small laugh.  _I must look ridiculous_! John touched bow to violin and a horrible sound came out from it. John frowned. Of course it would sound like a dying cat.

Suddenly, John remembered the aether. He had ignored it mostly over the last few months; just another reminder of Sherlock. John had been surprised when it hadn't disappeared. He just took it as a sign that he still loved Sherlock; what John didn't realize was that it was proof that he was still loved.

 _Please aether, if its in your power, help me play. Just this once._ John brought bow to string again, and this time, he was rewarded with a sweet sound. It was low and sad. John cleared his mind from all thoughts and allowed the aether to direct his movements.

John vaguely remembered the piece as one that Sherlock had played frequently. Until this very moment, John had almost forgotten it. He let the music surge over and into him. John closed his eyes and memories of a better time invaded his senses.

'Do you want to have dinner?'

'Do you want to see my experiment?'

'Come to the ball with me.'

'Have you ever had a broken heart?'

'John, I love you.'

The tears fell and John continued to play.

* * *

The next morning it was bright, sunny and oddly warm. John was filled with a blissful peace, and for some reason, John felt that the day was full of promise. He whistled as he buttered his toast. Mrs. Hudson came in when he was in the middle of pouring tea.

"Doctor, I know its early, but there's a patient here to see you."

John sighed. "Can  _no one_ read that consulting hours don't begin until 9 am. Fine, fine. Show him in."

John placed down the teapot and went to go retrieve his medical bag. He was only in his dressing gown, but the visitor was male and visiting outside of his hours. The unknown man could just deal with it.

He turned to greet the man. He had a long beard and straggly hair. What was left of his face was shadowed by a hat. The man let out a long rattling cough.

"Please come and take a seat sir."

The stranger nodded and sat down. "If you will give me a moment, I will find my stethoscope." John took his time getting the instrument from his bag. A thought had dug into John's mind.  _It's Sherlock. If I take long enough, he'll have time to take off that silly beard._

But when John finally turned back to his patient, there was still an old man sitting there.

* * *

_Six months. I only knew Sherlock for about a month. It is right that my grieving period is longer than my whole relationship with the man?_

The nights had gotten warmer, but the only reason was because summer was fast approaching. With Mycroft's generosity, of quite a substantial allowance every month, John had been able to save up some of his consultation fees. John spent one May evening contemplating taking a small vacation to Paris or Venice. He had spent too long locked up in the rooms of 221B. John didn't necessarily look forward to a vacation by himself, but that was how it had started last time.

John laughed. It sounded hollow in his ears.

* * *

He curled up in his chair. John had drifted in and out of consciousness for the last half an hour. He put a bookmark in his medical journal and stood up. John stretched. He flinched slightly; he had been so stiff lately.

 _I feel like I've aged ten years in the last one._ He knew why. Life had been so boring and the mundane did not suit John. He made his way to his room, only pausing for a moment to pass a look at Sherlock's room. He had never gone in there and he probably never would.

John opened the door to his bedroom. There was a sleeping figure in it.

It was Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having at s3 finally air, I find what I wrote in John's doctor office to be even funnier.


	27. Arch 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of this chapter is from Sherlock's POV. 000 marked for change in POV.

John had no idea he could feel so conflicted. His hands clenched at his sides. Should he punch the sleeping man or curl up beside him? Then a thought froze John's heart.

How did he know that this was Sherlock? He had been fooled before, and this time there was no bruise to warn him. More than anything, John wanted to believe his own eyes but he was terrified too.

John slowly backed out of his bedroom. He had his gun tucked safely in his robe pocket, but he also needed something else to confront this 'Sherlock'. Even since he had been caught without his gun, John made extra sure to always keep it on hand.

He backed out into the sitting room. He made his way to an oak desk, located in front of the left bay window, John found the pair of handcuffs he needed. John would handcuff the  _thing_ to the bed and confirm its identity. If it could pull out of the restraints, well...John felt the cool metal of his gun on his fingers.

The figure hadn't moved. It looked like Sherlock, but it was a battered version of him. His hair was longer and John actually saw stubble on his face. The skin under his eyes looked tired; bags that John had never seen on his flawless features before.

John fastened one cuff to the bed and then quickly clicked the other one around the right wrist of Sherlock. The figure didn't stir. John frowned; he had expected the noise to wake him up. Whether it was the real Sherlock or not, John figured he deserved some pain for the anguish he had put him through.

He plunged his elbow into Sherlock's stomach.

The man woke up with a huff and a gargled yell.

He turned his eyes up. "John..."

 _God, it sounds like heaven to hear my name spoken in that deep voice again._ John narrowed his gun, so that it was set right in Sherlock's face. "Tell me who you are and what you want."

Sherlock looked at John, with sadness etched all over his features. "I'm so sorry...what I've done to you John..I, What you must have gone through, but you must understand. I had no idea about Moriarty's machine." His eyes swam with tears.

John refused to believe any words without the evidence. "Make yourself bleed."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"Even though the other fake had almost been flawless, there were still some things it couldn't do - and that was bleed. Now show me you can!" John repeated internally _I must stay calm._

"Okay, but how?"

John backed away and reached into his medical bag without taking his eyes off of Sherlock. He grabbed a scalpel and threw it on the bed. It landed next to Sherlock. He picked up the sharp object.

"Are you really going to make me do this, John?" He sounded exhausted.

John silently nodded. He hoped to god that this one was truly Sherlock. He didn't think he had the heart to deal with another disappointment. John held his breath as Sherlock took his free arm and cut one of his fingers.

There was one small bead of crimson liquid that arose from the pad of his fingertip.

It really  _was_ Sherlock Holmes.

John frowned. "You have quite a lot to explain." John pulled up a chair and put away his gun. He waited with a patient expression on his face. Sherlock stared at John in complete silence.

"Um." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I must admit I had been hoping for a bit more. A hug, a fainting spell...or even a punch? Just don't look at me like that. I did it all for you John."

"Don't even say that Sherlock. You never do anything for the sole benefit of another person. As for my lack of emotion, you have been  _dead_ for six months. In my medical opinion, I am experiencing shock." John sat back farther in his chair. "Sherlock, if you want anything other than being thrown out into the street, you better explain yourself quickly and so that I can understand."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine."

000

Sherlock untangled his limbs from around John. He gave his lover one last look. He had to do this; alone. It wasn't that he didn't trust John's ability to fight against Moriarty, more Sherlock didn't trust the criminal not to threaten John to make Sherlock defenseless. Sherlock loved John, but that was his greatest weakness.  _But only when fighting against scum like Moriarty._

He wanted to place a kiss on John's forehead but he knew it would wake up the ex-soldier. Hopefully, Sherlock could make everything right before John even noticed he was missing.

* * *

Sherlock woke with a start. His head was pounding. How could he have fallen for something so stupid? Well, actually he had been ambushed in a pitch black part of the ship but still; he should have been expecting anything.

With a groan, Sherlock oriented himself. He wasn't chained to anything. There was no one there watching as guard. All he felt was a pounding headache and a pain in his arm.  _Someone gave me a shot? How long have I been unconscious?_ Sherlock stood up shakily.  _Should I check with John?_ He had only meant to be gone for a few hours.

Sherlock's eyes caught on a note...and a teapot and a cup. Sherlock lifted the teapot and picked up the note.

Sherlock,

Please enjoy a cup of tea.

Then meet me on Deck D.

I believe there is something we need to discuss.

Kisses, Moriarty

Sherlock balled up the paper and slipped it into his pocket. He eyed the tea suspiciously.  _I won't drink it, but..._ Sherlock was curious to see what was in it. Was it really tea?

Slowly, Sherlock tipped the teapot over and poured the liquid into the cup. It was just tea. Regular English Breakfast. Anti-climactic. Maybe he had been looking for the extraordinary in the ordinary. Moriarty would do that. Sherlock sighed. He was wasting time.

Sherlock made his way to Deck D. Sherlock checked his watch. If it was still the same day, he had only been out for two hours. Still plenty of time. No one barred his way to the deck. When Sherlock arrived, Moriarty was sitting on a deck chair; without a care in the world.

He turned to Sherlock. "So glad you could join me." Moriarty stood up and stretched. "I knew you were coming for me, and I don't like to be followed, Sherlock."

Sherlock kept his distance. "This needs to be settled. Who you've killed on this airship and the crimes you have committed, pale in comparison to what you've done on the continent and in England."

"Yes, yes Sherlock. We're all aware now that I'm the bad guy." Moriarty bobbed his head, taking a few steps forward. "But what if I'm not the only one?"

"What do you mean?"

"Let's say, hypothetically, that you've been unconscious for over a day. And let's just say, that during that time John never noticed your absence, because you never left." Moriarty smiled. It sent shivers down Sherlock's spine.

"How?"

"How? You're not naive, Sherlock. What is available to one who is willing to embrace everything? Why, everything of course. If you can dream of it, I can do it." Moriarty paced back and forth. "I wonder how John will react when his 'lover' becomes a murderer?"

Moriarty stopped and his voice became higher. "Whatever do you mean?"

Sherlock's brows knitted together.  _Is he even human anymore?_

His lips curled into a devilish smile. "The beautiful replica I made of you, of course. Shame you'll never see it."

The color drained from Sherlock's face.  _Moriarty was capable of many things, but this? A fully functioning machine that looked like him?_

"Yes, I suppose it does sound impossible. However, let's not be so  _extreme_!" Moriarty screamed into the air. His face contorted with rage. "Sherlock! You were suppose to be different. Why must everybody be so ordinary?"

Sherlock hated to admit it, but the man before him was making no sense. "Get to the point."

"Madness, Sherlock. To accept it, to welcome it; knowing that no matter what I do, its perfect." Moriarty stepped closer. "How else could I have distilled aether? Would any man do that?"

Sherlock shook his head. As Moriarty approached his right, Sherlock moved to the left. They crossed paths. Sherlock was now backed up against the glass, with Moriarty near the door leading back to the airship.

"The answer is 'no'. An average man would never do that."

"Are you saying the madness lead you to it? Is this a weak attempt to ask for forgiveness?" Sherlock's hands slowly worked up to the window. His fingers grasped the clasp; Sherlock turned it.

"No, no. Madness didn't make me do it, I did it because I am  _mad_." Moriarty waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "But, that is neither here nor there." He strode forward a foot. "You can't be allowed to continue. I have a feeling that our paths will continue to cross...and I won't have that."

Moriarty lunged at Sherlock. Although he had been expecting it, Sherlock yelled in surprise. Moriarty's fingers ripped through Sherlock's shirt. Unable to shield himself, Sherlock took the beating as he finished unlocking the window.

He wrapped his arms around Moriarty. Sherlock silently asked John for forgiveness.

Sherlock leaned up against the glass and they both tipped out of the Nautilus.

He could feel the wind whipping against his skin. Moriarty was still clinging to him; ripping at his chest. Sherlock pushed him away. Moriarty's face was twisted with hate but not a trace of fear.

Sherlock could barely hear Moriarty over the wind. "You haven't won." Moriarty snapped his fingers and a light surrounded him. Sherlock watched in stunned silence as silver wings spread out on Moriarty's back. With one final wink, the mad man dived forward and disappeared into a cloud.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. His eyes stung and his lungs were burning.  _Why is it ending this way?_ He had been prepared to sacrifice himself, that was why he had left the note for John, but to die without taking the villain with him?

Sherlock was thankful in knowing that John would be able to handle the machine version of him. If not, Sherlock couldn't imagine what would happen. John's image of him being shattered, as a monster with his face wrecked havoc.  _No, John would never fall for it._

Sherlock couldn't believe that all consuming rage would be the last emotion he would feel. He closed his eyes. Sherlock didn't know what forces he could pray to, but there seemed no other options.

 _Please don't let me die. John, I still have to help. I still have so much left to do!_ Sherlock knew he was just being selfish but he didn't care.

With his eyes closed, Sherlock had no idea how long he had before he hit the ocean.  _At least it will be over quick. So, this is how I die. Having saved no one, not even the person who mattered most to me._

 _I will help you._ Sherlock started at the strange voice in his head.  _Who, who is that?_ Suddenly, memory flooded him.  _Undine, is that you?_

_Yes, Sherlock. I took your body as a vessel and now I will help you. Do not waste this gift. Bring this great evil to justice._

Sherlock cried out with relief.  _Thank you._ No words could convey his gratitude.

 _Take a deep breath and no matter what, don't open your eyes._ Undine ordered.

000

John had held his breath at the ending.  _Undine had saved Sherlock?_ John thanked the kind creature. In the end, John couldn't save it, but it had still repaid him and saved Sherlock. Before he knew what he was doing, John's hand shot out and grasped for the man cuffed on the bed.

Sherlock looked at him and John quickly removed his hands. "So, why did it take you  _half a year_ to get back here? Lost?" John had meant for it to sound sarcastic, but it came out as hurt. It was proving harder than John would have imagined for him to keep his cool.

Sherlock sounded exasperated, but he still explained. "He was still alive, John. Moriarty was  _still_ a threat. He thought I was dead, it was the best time for me to defeat him."

"Why didn't you at least send me a note? Just a few words. That's all I would have needed...to not feel so lost." John felt the overwhelming urge to punch Sherlock again.

"John, you must know. I never stopped thinking of you, I love you."

John squeezed his eyes shut. "You will never do this again. I don't care if its against the devil or god, you are  _not_ leaving me behind. Are we clear?"

Sherlock hesitated but he finally nodded. "It truly was hell for me, John."

John could contain it no longer. He jumped up and tackled Sherlock. Their lips connected and John saw stars. If felt so good, to finally feel the comforting warmth of Sherlock on his mouth again. Now he truly was home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go!


	28. Arch 28

John had wanted to kiss Sherlock senseless, but he tasted like old socks and his stubble brushed up against his mustache in a none to pleasant way. After pulling apart, John made Sherlock go take a shower and a shave. Sherlock grudgingly agreed.

John looked at his surroundings in 221B, realizing, with a rush, that finally he wasn't alone. While it was true that Sherlock needed a shower, the real reason John had sent Sherlock away was so that he wouldn't see him cry. It was a lot of information to process so quickly.  _He's alive! He's alive! He came back to me._ He let out a small shout, then allowed the tears, that had been threatening to overflow, to cover his face.

The tears were slow at first and then traced countless paths down his face. It released a tension in his chest and John knew that the heaviness in his heart was finally leaving. Oh, he had been happy occasionally in the last six months, but this, this was an emotion that would take weeks to absorb.

To be able to look over at the chair that was next to his and not see it empty. To hear the violin again, for the smell of sulfur to invade his nostrils when he came down for breakfast. All the small things he had been missing; they would be his again. John could barely breathe.

He had composed himself by the time Sherlock came out of the bathroom. He had cut his hair but his curls still framed his face, longer than usual. His stubble was gone and John could see how silky smooth his skin was. Although there were still purple rings under his eyes, John knew that in the next few days they would disappear.

John stood up and walked over to Sherlock. His hair was dripping wet and he was wearing John's robe. It was too small on him and the colors looked ridiculous. Strips didn't compliment Sherlock the way they did John.

"You look like something the cat dragged in." John said affectionately. He placed a light kiss on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock whimpered. "You have successfully tortured me, John. Am I clean enough to be presentable now?"

John stepped back and gave him the once over. "I suppose so. No one can ask for perfection."

"How I missed you." John embraced Sherlock. The scent of him invaded his senses. Sherlock had used his soap, but there was still the tinge of Sherlock's scent lacing it.  _How have I survived without this?_  John hoped he would never again have the chance to find out again.

Sherlock gently took John's chin and angled it up towards his face. Sherlock's lips nudged at John's, and he opened up to the taller man's assault. His tongue drank him in. There was no rush; late in the evening, they had the night to themselves.

John lead Sherlock to his bedroom; he paused outside of Sherlock's room. "I never went in there. It felt wrong, you being dead and all." Sherlock kissed John's knuckles. "Thank you." No more was said, and they continued to John's room.

Sherlock on top of the bed, waiting for whatever John wanted to do. John straddled Sherlock. He had relinquished control and was allowing John to touch every part of him. John's hands quickly pulled the knot apart on the robe and pulled it open. It had been so long since John had seen Sherlock naked.

The curves of his body were more pronounced. John didn't like the way Sherlock's hip bones jolted out. He would have to make sure he ate regularly. His eyes lingered all over his body. John took one of Sherlock's nipples in his fingers and slowly rolled it around. Sherlock arched into the touch.

John let his other hand brush up against Sherlock's chest and then his stomach. He could see the muscles draw tight under porcelain skin. John's thumb brushed around and into his bellybutton. His other four fingers fanning out and playing with his nether curls.

Sherlock began to gently hum. It sounded as if the man had just eaten a delicious piece of chocolate and was allowing it to melt on his tongue. John's hand traveled down farther but he ignored Sherlock's cock. Instead, he brought both hands down to Sherlock's thighs.

He made lazy circles with his fingers. Sherlock tried to draw his legs in together, but John kept them apart. Without any warning, John lunged down and his teeth sunk into Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock moaned and his hands came up to squeeze John's hair in between his fingers.

John pressed his teeth in. He sucked and nibbled. Satisfied that he had left an impressive bruise, John finally lifted his head. "There, now you're the Sherlock I know." John's voice cracked at the end.

Sherlock could find no words so instead he stroked the top of John's hand in a soothing action. Anything to convey to the man before him that he was alive and real. John's eyes clouded with lust again and he dipped his head down towards Sherlock's groin.

Sherlock's head tipped back and John watched as the long expanse of Sherlock's neck widened before him. John brought his lips down and placed a small kiss on the underside of Sherlock's erect cock.

Sherlock inhaled a sharp breath. John's tongue teased him; never allowing his mouth to swallow around him. "John." Sherlock groaned. John ignored him and continued his exploration. Suddenly, he stopped. "While you were gone, did you...were you with anyone else?" John kept his head down.

Sherlock's hand traced along the side of John's face. "No, there's never been anyone but you, John." John let out a breath. "I kissed a woman. She was such a flirt and you were gone. I thought, could one kiss hurt? It was terrible." John waited for Sherlock to get upset with him.

Instead, a hand worked its way under his chin and lifted up his head. Sherlock looked down at him, nothing but devotion gleaming in his eyes. "John, its okay. I understand. You're only human." John laughed. "I supposed I am."

John's mouth placed kisses all over Sherlock's hips and the lower half of his torso. Sherlock wiggled and whimpered. John ignored him and concentrated on re-memorizing the other man's body. John's hands came up and stroked his sides; tracing his arms.

John worked his way back over to Sherlock's cock. His tongue made a lazy, sticky trail up it and he finally engulfed it with his mouth. "Oh, god. John!" Sherlock's hips buckled up. John began to work his neck up and down. "God, how could I have lived without this. You." Sherlock moaned, arching his back.

John continued his assault. He finally disconnected his mouth and sat up. He eyed Sherlock. "Why am I still dressed?" Sherlock sat up and his hands moved over John's shirt. After he unbuttoned each button, he placed a kiss on John's skin. Sherlock untucked the shirt. "Stand up." John wordlessly followed the command.

Sherlock pushed John's shirt off of him and began to unfasten his trousers. They slipped to the floor and Sherlock tugged down his pants. John was already hard, and Sherlock's hands moved up to trace a path from John's stomach to his groin.

His left hand went behind John and cupped his ass. Sherlock's right thumb came up and rubbed over John's slit. He exhaled deeply and the air hissed through John's clenched teeth. Sherlock's fingers played along his erection and gripped his base. "Um, don't stop." Sherlock complied and his mouth fitted over him.

Sherlock moved his head up and down. John struggled to get deeper into his mouth. John's hands anchored themselves on Sherlock's shoulders; digging his nails in. Sherlock continued to lick and suck until John urgently told him to stop. "I don't want this to end yet."

Sherlock pulled John back onto the bed and on top of him. They just kissed. Slow, breathless kisses that they had both missed. Sherlock never really understood how alive John's mouth made him, until he couldn't have it for six months. John realized just how alone he had been. Sure, he was the type who could make friends easily, but this was something that ran deeper than just another lover or friendship. Sherlock gave John both relationships that he so desperately needed in one person. John continued to kiss Sherlock trying to convey the relief he was filled with.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around tighter. His hands traced the planes of John's shoulders and spine. Sherlock broke off the kiss and pressed a hot trail of kisses all over John's face and neck. John hummed with appreciation. John lifted his body up, placing his hands on Sherlock's chest. "Sherlock, please. I need you inside me."

Sherlock's hand fumbled to the nightstand. He took and uncapped the cream. Sherlock pushed John up on his chest, and caught him by his mouth. John's hands gripped at the headrail and Sherlock's fingers began trace their way to John's entrance. John moved into Sherlock's mouth and moaned as one finger was gently brought up into him. His fingers were slick and John could feel the cool sensation of the cream, as it slicked around and into him.

Sherlock continued to move his fingers in deeper and John moved his hips- rolling them its his mouth and over his fingers. John let out a strangled groan as Sherlock moved another finger inside him. He pushed them in gently and brushed up inside John. The blond headed man shivered above him.

Finally satisfied, Sherlock moved John downward. John slowly pressed down and took Sherlock's cock inside of him. Sherlock moaned and felt his toes curl up. John waited a moment and then began to move. He had has hands gripping Sherlock's chest and used it as leverage as he gently pounded up and down.

Sherlock's hand came up to John's cock and stroked it. His other hand gripped John's hip; helping to guide him. Sherlock couldn't believe that he had almost forgotten what sex could feel like. It had been a rough, unforgiving half year and he had secretly wondered if he was too damaged to love John like he deserved. Sherlock was happy to see how wrong he had been.

John's head leaned back and he let the sensations overtake him. Sherlock watched in amazement as John's body began to lightly glow. John was oblivious to the change, and Sherlock didn't bring it to his attention. "Sherlock, I'm so close." John gritted his teeth.

Sherlock could feel his own muscles tightening in his lower abdomen. Sherlock watched in fascination as the hand gripping John began to glow. Sherlock let out a surprised sound and John opened his mouth to ask what was the matter but instead he he let out a moan as his orgasm overtook all rational thought.

With muscles flexing all around him, and the feeling of John's hands clawing into his chest, Sherlock came. It racked his whole body and Sherlock felt as if he were coming apart at the seams. The aether and that power that was Undine enveloped them. Blue and green crashed together and Sherlock could feel the light of it on his closed eyelids. John let out one final moan and collapsed onto Sherlock.

The power lingered. It had been part of John, but now it was part of both of them. They were just two men; but when they were together, they were so much more. A force to be reckoned with. Sherlock could see that now.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes to meet those of his lover. John's eyes were sparkling. The aether had lighted his body before...but this, his eyes. There had always been depth to them. Now, there was an energy, a dazzling array; like John could see into his soul. Sherlock gasped. "John, you're eyes...they're electric blue." He knew he could drown in those eyes; lose himself for an eternity and then all over again.

John smiled softy. "Its only because I can see you." He blushed and his eyes softened.

Sherlock knew he must look the idiot, his mouth hanging open. "God, how I missed you."

John laughed. Sherlock joined him, a laugh of joy he didn't know he could feel again. Sherlock and John pressed their slick foreheads together.

Their laughter rang throughout the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, that's it. The End. I hope you enjoyed my first ever Johnlock fanfic. Please leave a comment! I would love to hear your thoughts :D Once again, thanks for reading all the way through and I hope you enjoyed it.


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